


Gentle Beasts Both

by stonelions



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blow Jobs, Cancer, Dating, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 09:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 43,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4955080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonelions/pseuds/stonelions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen is a construction worker newly diagnosed with cancer. He befriends Dorian at a meditation group shortly after, and the two hit it off. Mostly a quiet, steady romance with a lot of hurt/comfort mixed in. </p><p>  <i>“Ah, yes, I complained bitterly of the cold to you. No wonder you remember me.”</i></p><p>  <i>It was rainy that night, and icy. The wet got into your bones, a hard sensation to recall in the midst of a hot summer. “You were also wearing a comically large scarf,” Cullen says.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ADDITIONAL WARNINGS: If you dislike mentions of Dorian/Bull, just a heads up-it’s discussed in the story as a mostly amicable past relationship. Additional pairings include Garrett Hawke/Anders, and also Cassandra/Josephine, in case either are a problem. HIV is mentioned several times and cancer is central in the story, but NOBODY DIES. 
> 
> GENERAL: Everyone is human for the purposes of this au, since it’s a plain old reality sort of deal. (Iron Bull looks like Jason Momoa, give or take.) The story is set in and around Vancouver, BC.

What strikes him most is that he feels no different when he walks out of the clinic than he did when he walked in. Every whispering doubt, every stray pang of fear he’s felt over the past few months has been vindicated, and it changes nothing. He’s in shock. Rationally, he knows he’s in shock, and when it wears off there’s no telling how he’ll react. In the present moment any feeling he might have about the news turned to mist and rose off him, invisible, as he sat in a stiff leather chair and heard a word he’s anticipated for years. He rubbed the back of his neck, nodded along with the doctor until they stopped speaking, stood up, said thank you, made a follow up appointment at the front desk as was suggested—to discuss treatment options with a specialist and arrange another scan—and left.

Nothing changes. Nothing immediate.

Instead of going home, Cullen wanders several blocks in the upscale neighbourhood surrounding the clinic. Most of the other people on the sidewalks are dressed in business casual, or they’re in their early twenties and stylish in the incomprehensible way of the young. Floral patterns, the likes of which he hasn’t seen since the sofa in his grandparent’s living room as a child, are apparently in this season. He pauses next to the window of a little place that reminds him of a café he often frequents with Hawke before they head to their work site for the day. Freezers lined with colorful gelato draw him inside, pulling his eye the way kite tails in the park always do.

The girl behind the counter beams at him. Asks, “What would you like?”

He finds himself smiling back as he points to flavors.

Gelato cup in hand, he sits at the top of the slide in an empty playground to eat. Three flavors: chocolate, hazelnut, and sea salt caramel. It’s cold, not too sweet. A fourth scoop wouldn’t be remiss, though it would be decadent.

Bright blue hydrangeas and pink phlox line the garden adjacent the playground, and someone’s laundry swings colorful and vulnerable over the rail of an apartment balcony. One stray breeze and it will all end up in the hydrangeas.

When the gelato’s gone, and an approaching pair of mothers give him a wary look, Cullen knows it’s time to head out. 

He’s wondered for years when the war would catch up with him. Not in gunfire or drone strikes, but this deeper, slow burn poison he earned by showing up and shipping out. By thinking he knew the answers. Naivety carried him straight to hell and he spent several years there, his insides stained with the anger that seeped in where naivety charred and flaked away. Instead of cementing him into a hardened soldier, the experience left him damaged. Unfit for service, though his official papers say it more eloquently than that. Ever since, he’s been building a life for himself on shaky foundations.

If what he was exposed to on his tour of duty hasn’t directly made him sick, he believes the experience itself is still responsible. Either a result of nerves or divine punishment. Impossible to know which.

All he knows for certain is that in the span of one sunny summer afternoon, he’s gone from ex-soldier with a persistent chest cold to ex-soldier with lung cancer. The diagnosis is lukewarm—neither overtly hopeful nor utterly hopeless—but with doctors you never could be sure exactly what treatable meant.

He thinks he should tell someone. Hawke, maybe. Garrett seems all beard and bluster, but the man has a heart the size of the sun beating in that thick chest. Then again, Hawke has his own worries—a husband who struggles with his mental health, a little sister working a long way from home, and a little brother who volunteers for disaster relief when he’s not giving him an earful while they both build houses. Not only that, but Hawke’s trying to run a business; Cullen is his friend but he’s also an employee. It complicates matters. There’s Cassandra, but if he tells her she’ll turn his life into a treatment regimen and fuss over him day and night. Her meddling is about as subtle as a sledgehammer but it’s because she cares. Underneath the stern brows, she cares deeply.

Best not to tell anyone, for now. Until he knows what the next step is and, more importantly, how to take it.

*

He ends the day covered in gyprock dust and joint compound. The house they’re working on is nearing the stage where the pace of visible progress slows to a crawl as they do the finishing. Another two weeks, give or take any acts of god—something surprisingly commonplace in construction—and it’ll be time to pass the job on to the painters and interior decorators.

Hawke stands in the center of the master bedroom, where they’ve been filling drywall joints for the last hour. “Not bad what you can accomplish with a hawk and trowel,” he says, grinning to drive home the pun. Cullen ignores it. Every time they do drywall joints, the puns are endless. To Hawke’s credit he only recycles one or two that are obviously his favorites. Cullen coughs, though he muffles it in the crook of his elbow.

“You get that checked out yet?” Hawke asks, dusting his hands off on the front of his shirt.

“Last week,” Cullen says. “I’m...waiting to hear back.” It isn’t exactly a lie—he’s still waiting for a call to confirm his referral to the specialized oncologist.

Hawke nods. “When they don’t call in a couple weeks that’s usually a good sign. It’s if you hear back that you need to worry.”

“Yeah.” Easier to agree than to talk about the truth. It’s been six days, but he isn’t ready to discuss it. He’s barely ready to acknowledge it’s happening to him. Denial and distraction: the only powers he’s got left.

After they’ve cleaned up, the crew says their goodbyes. Hawke, as always, tries to goad Cullen into joining them at the pub for a few rounds but, as always, he declines as good-naturedly as possible. Ever since moving west, he prefers to spend Friday nights in attendance at a meditation group. It was Hawke who first directed him to it, since the woman who leads it is a personal friend of his. Merrill is small in stature but her presence has weight, and she’s excellent at facilitating calm contemplation and the occasional therapeutic discussion. 

“Say hello to Merrill for me, then,” Hawke calls as he heads for his truck. Cullen nods, waves at him from beside his own car. Once he climbs into the driver’s seat he pulls off his dusty, sweaty shirt, and tugs on a clean one. Fumbles in his bag for a deodorant stick and freshens up, all the while hoping nobody is watching. The drive downtown is relatively painless once he moves past a chokepoint where traffic inches forward a few cars at a time each green light. Ages ago he sussed out a rare block with free parking, and he finds himself a spot on the tree lined street. He’s got forty-five minutes leftover to grab dinner and walk to the community center.

There’s a grim undercurrent in everything he does. A second, softer heartbeat—the shadow cast on his lung. It’s overwhelming, so he contemplates putting one foot in front of the other; counts his steps along the sidewalk. Concentrates on the bowl of soup set in front of him after he sits down at the bar of a ramen joint with the smell of hot tea wafting in the weakly air-conditioned space. He watches the chefs at their oeuvre, admiring their speed and craftsmanship. It’s work that takes deft hands.

He’s midway through a mouthful of noodles when he realizes he’s deeply, unshakably afraid. He manages to finish chewing, but he can’t bring himself to take another bite. All week he’s kept busy, focused on the external: Hawke’s awful jokes on the job site, drywall to put up, errands to run, a beer with Cassandra. After the drive home tonight, he’s got a lonely, silent weekend to cope with. Forty-eight empty hours. He rubs his hand over his beard, feeling himself sliding further into panic. When the waitress asks if he wants his meal packed up he says yes out of guilt and requests the bill.

He leaves his noodles in the car. Part of him wants to climb in and cross the bridge, head eastbound instead of home. Drive all night, check into some motel in Alberta and then disappear into the wilds. Go out on his own terms, never to be heard from again. Instead, he locks the car and starts walking.

All the way to the community center, he’s bargaining with himself. If he still feels too shaken when he gets there, he’ll leave. Maybe the walk there will level him out. He can go in, and he can leave before it starts if he needs to. He can drive around the city or back to the bar where he knows Hawke and the crew will still be playing pool, half of them well past tipsy. Keeping his brain occupied that way gets him through the front doors and down the hall to the room where the meeting takes place.

It’s filling up, but even with a crowd it’s quiet. People are there to let go of a week’s worth of stress, and everyone is subdued. That calm hits his panic like a wave, takes hold, pulls him into it. His breathing starts to ease.

Merrill moves up to the front of the room, and a minute later she raises her hand. “Shall we get started?” she asks, soft voice lilting just so. The murmurs dissipate to scuffling chair legs and sighs, creaking furniture, the rustle of fabric.

Cullen chooses a spot near the back, and tries to ignore his second heartbeat. He narrows in on the real one, the thud-thud that carries him, diseased or not, through his life.

He opens his eyes when he hears the doors swish five minutes later. A man he’s exchanged pleasantries with on occasion comes in late and takes the seat next to him with a bright smile and quick nod hello. Dorian, the fellow’s name is Dorian, and he’s forever impeccably dressed and perfectly coiffed, though often five minutes late. Cullen feels every wrinkle in his shirt—and on his brow for that matter—stand out all the more for being beside him. They must make for a stark comparison: handsome mustachioed gentleman alongside scruffy, grotty t-shirt wearing construction worker. He realizes a few moments later that Dorian not only looks good, but smells incredible, too. Cullen can’t place the fragrance, but it’s musky with a perfect note of warm sweetness for balance.

It’s more distracting than it ought to be.

Later, as the meditation draws to a close, people stand up, stretch, check their phones. A pleasant sense of peace fills the small space, almost its own quality of light. On a table at the back of the room there’s a spread of muffins and doughnuts, as well as a stainless steel dispenser full of hot green tea. Merrill always stays and chats with the group for half an hour or so, and although Cullen has rarely spoken with her for long himself, he enjoys the companionable atmosphere. And normally, the muffins. Worth a shot, he decides, to see if he can get something down.

He stands off to the side, out of the way but not fully removed, and peels the paper from the bottom of one of said muffins. It’s packed with blueberries and keeps sticking to his fingers, but the first bite doesn’t disagree with him.

“I don’t normally come on Fridays,” says Dorian, popping up beside him and helping himself to a mug of tea. “Is it always this lively?”

“Quite often,” Cullen replies with a nod. It’s the usual crowd of familiar faces, and almost every available chair is full each week. “You a Tuesday man, then?”

“Mostly, yes. I tend to seek peace elsewhere on Friday nights,” he says. “Specifically places that offer a selection of craft beer.”

Cullen chuckles, cutting it short after it occurs to him to wonder if he’s got blueberry stuck in his teeth. “Perfectly reasonable alternative,” he agrees. Dorian looks like the type who’d appreciate craft beer. He almost looks like the type who might brew it for a living, but there’s something elegant about the man that speaks otherwise.

“I like to think so.”

The buzz of idle chatter fills the room, patching a gap in their conversation. Cullen takes the lull to work his tongue over his teeth surreptitiously, praying it does the trick.

“It’s Cullen, right?” Dorian asks after a moment.

Their eyes meet, and Cullen finds himself surprised to hear his own name. “Yes.”

“I thought so. I’m—

“Dorian,” Cullen finishes for him, offering what he hopes is a genuine smile.

“He remembers! Well, that makes me feel good. It’s been a while since we’ve crossed paths, hasn’t it?”

Weeks since Cullen has seen him in the group, months since they’ve spoken. “Winter, I think,” Cullen replies. “Or late spring.”

“Ah, yes, I complained bitterly of the cold to you. No wonder you remember me.”

It was rainy that night, and icy. The wet got into your bones, a hard sensation to recall in the midst of a hot summer. “You were also wearing a comically large scarf.” 

Dorian blows on his tea, smiling. “I have been known to indulge myself on that front.” He takes a sip from the mug before pinching one of the points of his mustache back into place. “If nothing else, it’s memorable,” he adds with a sly twist of the mouth. 

“It is that.” The other group members have descended on the snack table, and Cullen steps further aside to leave room. Dorian joins him. Merrill is still chatting heartily to several people, her large eyes intent on whomever is speaking. Cullen manages to finish all but the last bite of muffin and tosses the remains into a nearby trash can.

“So,” Dorian says, “now that you’ve found inner peace, are you off to make the most of your evening?”

Cullen stifles a small cough against his fist. The familiar gesture fills him with a sudden, sinking dread. He stares momentarily at his hand before remembering that he’s been asked a question. “I... Sorry,” he says. Pressure against his temple grounds him, so he digs his thumb in there. “No.”

“No? You’re not going out?”

All he can do is shake his head. “I hadn’t planned on it.”

“Hm. Let’s see, I’m to meet someone in...” Dorian glances at the stylish watch strapped to his wrist, “an hour and a half. Would you care to join me for a friendly pint in the meantime? Keep me entertained?”

Distraction. Distraction is exactly what he needs, instead of a night at home full of listless, pointless fear. He doesn’t know why Dorian is suddenly inviting him out to the pub, but he isn’t sure it matters, either. A friendly pint is what it is. One way or another, it’ll busy the mind.

“You can say no,” Dorian adds gently. “I won’t take offense.”

It’s unexpected, but what has he got to lose? “Sure. I’ll come,” Cullen replies. “Though if you’re hoping for excitement I’m afraid you’ll find me a disappointment.”

Dorian waves him off, gives him a crooked smile. “So gloomy. Come on, I know a place.” He finishes his tea and leaves the mug in the provided plastic bin. They head back out into the heat of the evening. “It’s not far.” He leads the way across the street and up a block, to an innocuous looking pub with small heart-shaped rainbow stickers placed strategically in each tall window. They are in that neighbourhood.

“Will this do?” Dorian asks with a tilt of the head. “Surely a card-carrying heterosexual such as yourself isn’t intimidated.” 

Cullen snorts and shoulders past him to hold the door open for them both. Their faces are briefly quite close, and Dorian looks at him with a raised brow as he steps by. They settle into a recently vacated table for two next to the windows, and Dorian checks his phone before tossing it back into his bag. A waitress comes by and they both order a pint.

“Have you eaten, aside from your muffin?” Dorian asks. Cullen nods, not wanting to focus on it, and Dorian nods as well. “That was dessert then, hm? I haven’t, but I’d better wait. I think I’m meant to be getting dinner later. Though...the fries here are quite good.” After a quick perusal of the menu he shuffles it to the side.

Their drinks arrive; they both ordered different things, but the colors are similar. They take simultaneous tentative first sips, exhale approval, then laugh at their synchronization.

“Not half bad,” Cullen says. “Refreshing, anyway.”

“I prefer a good stout if I’m honest, but that’s a brew for a cold winter’s night. Better to stay light when it’s properly hot out.”

Cullen nods. “It’s been a wicked summer.” He knows he’s sweating and that his shirt is sticking to the center of his chest, but he has to hope he’ll be forgiven for it. Everyone else is suffering the same fate—save for Dorian, he realizes at a glance. “I’m no fan of the west coast IPA, though,” Cullen says.

“Agreed.” Dorian’s long nose wrinkles. “Too hoppy. Lacks balance. That bitterness borders on acrid at times, I find.”

“Seems like all the local microbreweries do one, though.”

Dorian sighs so hard it almost dishevels his mustache. “It’s trendy, you see. I’m not convinced anyone actually _likes_ IPAs, but all these Johnny-come-lately bearded beer aficionados have decided it’s the way to go. Some machismo thing. You can hardly take a step these days without stumbling into a new IPA. You can even get black IPAs, which...there’s a misnomer for you. Black India Pale Ale.” He shakes his head.

It’s possible Cullen was wrong when he guessed Dorian wasn’t in the craft beer industry. “You’re quite the expert,” he says, bemused.

“It’s a hobby.” Dorian smiles, takes another gulp from his glass. “Can’t say I’ve ever refused a beer though, even one I didn’t like.”

“A drink is a drink.”

“Especially close to the end of the evening,” Dorian adds with a laugh.

A larger group comes in and the waitress passes by with a serving of french fries. Those fries do look appealing—they’re thick cut, peels on, seasoned lightly...

Dorian notices him eyeballing them. “Shall we share an order, perhaps?” His hand is drifting over to the discarded menu.

The beer ought to be enough, but the prospect of hot salt and potato strikes a chord. “All right.”

With a quick wave, Dorian has the waitress back. A few more people file in, most of them keeping half an eye on the television screens on the walls. There’s a rugby match on, and Cullen spends a few moments watching.

“Rugby fan?” Dorian asks, looking where Cullen is looking.

“Sorry,” Cullen turns his attention to Dorian, sheepish. “Now and then. Used to play when I was younger.”

That brings a huge smile to Dorian’s face. “Explains the physique.”

Cullen clears his throat, lets his smile twist the scarred side of his lip. “Not for a long time.” He nudges his beer, “ Actually, _this_ probably does a better job explaining my current physique.”

A soft chuckle from Dorian.

“Do you come here often?” Cullen asks, anxious to gently deflect while not letting the silences between them drift too wide.

“Often enough, though my regular pub is a few blocks over. That one is more of a late night affair.” 

“Pub or club?” Cullen leans his elbows on the table and raises a brow.

Dorian lifts his hand in concession. “You got me. It can get quite loud and it’s better for dancing than having a chat. I might end up there tonight. Let me guess: it’s not really your scene?” He’s still smiling. The question is good-natured.

“No, not really. I’ve always felt more at home in dive bars. Somewhere that still reeks of cigarette smoke from before they changed the bylaw. With dartboards in the very back.” Serious blue collar: cheap drinks, rough crowd. No expectations of anyone looking clean cut or even clean, considering most of the clientele were usually manual labourers.

“Darts! Is there anywhere like that left in this city?”

“My crew knows a few places, but the way things are going...”

“Ah yes, the inexorable forward march of gentrification. Speaking of, you work in construction? Wear lots of plaid and denim?” Dorian teases, his mustache curling as he smiles behind his glass.

“I’m that dreadfully obvious, am I?” Cullen’s fingers tug at the chest of his t-shirt, unsticking it. What an impression he must be making.

“It’s a look.”

The waitress brings them their fries, and they both thank her.

“I uh, I do work construction, yes. Renos mostly, but some new builds. Been on the same crew for a few years now.” 

“I wonder if we’ve ever worked on the same house. At different times, I mean.” Dorian snatches up a broken stub of fry and pops it in his mouth. He makes a face like it might be a bit too hot.

“What do you do?”

Dorian finishes chewing and sips his beer; likely trying to cool a burnt tongue. “Landscape architecture. Gardens, patios, outdoor seating areas. Mainly residential, both old and new. If you work around here I bet we’ve both contributed our, in my case proverbial, sweat and blood to at least one or two of the same houses.”

“Huh.” There’s a good chance he’s right. “I suspect we have, at that.” Cullen reaches for a fry, breaking it in half to let it cool for a moment first. “How’d you get into that?”

“Back when I was young—well,” he presses the tips of his fingers to his chest, “young _er_ —I started off in landscaping and found myself constantly critical of everyone’s yards. Poorly positioned gardens, tropical plants languishing in the cold, invasive species creeping from lawns into adjacent forests, lots of positively hideous and impractical outdoor furniture, much of it ruined for lack of proper storage in a damp climate.” He shrugs and reaches for another fry. “Someone with good taste had to intervene.”

Cullen finds himself snickering. “Do you like it?”

“I do, most of the time. There’s the occasional client from hell but you see your share of that in every profession, as I imagine you’re well aware. And you, you enjoy building? Reconstructing, reconfiguring?”

He nods. “Most of the time. I like the guys I work with, and that’s...”

“Half the battle,” Dorian supplies before nibbling another fry.

“Exactly.” The fries really are quite good, and Cullen pulls a big one out of the stack. Salt, fat, beer, and a little upbeat company are helping his appetite.

A gasp and a few mumbled curses from the patrons around them make them both turn their eyes to the televisions. There’s been a penalty issued. They watch the next series of plays unfold, casually invested bystanders to a drama that seems to have half the pub in an iron grip.

Their conversation turns to sports; hockey, cricket, Cullen’s occasional weekend rugby with the lads. Then to food as they finish off the last few french fries. They talk about the city, what it’s like to live in a place where everyone seems to come from someplace else, themselves included.

“And you’ve been here how long?” Dorian asks.

“Only a few years in Vancouver. In Canada since I was thirteen.”

“Your family came over?”

“No,” Cullen trails a finger through the condensation on his glass, considering how he can answer the question without inviting further questions. “Just me. Boarding school.” He punctuates it with a shrug and a curl of the lip.  

“Ahh, that old chestnut.” There’s a knowing bend in Dorian’s brow. “Did a bit of boarding school time myself. Never cared for the uniforms. So drab, and itchy.”

For someone as clearly interested in fashion as the man across the table from him, uniforms must’ve been a particular torment. “Is that how you wound up all the way out here?” Cullen asks.

“No, actually. I got here because when it came time for me to go to university, I decided I was going to do it as far away from home as I could manage. I was meant to go to McGill, but as it turned out, one winter in Montreal was enough.” He shivers in his seat. “I’d never been so frigid in all my life.” 

This makes Cullen laugh, because he remembers. “The winters out there mean business, it’s true.”

“Preferable here by far. Though, I do have a couple of beautiful wool coats languishing in my closet. You can only wear them for about a week in February, otherwise it’s too wet or too warm.”

Cullen sips his beer. “A crying shame,” he agrees with a stifled smile.

“You’re teasing me, I caught that.” Still, he’s smiling back. “In truth I like it here, even it is small, as cities go.”

“Hm,” Cullen nods. “I feel like I’m always running into people I know.”

“Yes, precisely! On that note,” Dorian says, raising a hand in consideration, “tell me about your friends. I bet we have at least one in common.”

Cullen lists off a handful of names, and Dorian shakes his head on each one until they reach Cassandra.

“Pentaghast?” he asks. “Do you by any chance know a Josephine?”

“Montilyet? Cassandra’s girlfriend?”

“The one and only. Stunning, look at that. We’re practically in the same circles.”

“How do you know Josie?”

“I recently worked with her on a big project. It depends on the client, but some like to involve a decorator in the process, and it turns out she and I collaborate well.” With a flourish, he dashes down the last of his beer. “Shall we order another round?” he asks, gray eyes sparkling in the dim light.

It would be so easy to say yes. So easy to nod, order another pint and pretend for a little longer that this is his life. “Your uh, your friend, I thought...” Cullen taps his wrist, indicating the time.

“Oh, shit! Thank you, yes, he’ll vivisect me if I’m late again.” In an easy lean Dorian pulls his wallet from his pocket, produces a crisp new twenty. “I hope you won’t hate me for skipping out like this, I’ve enjoyed your company immensely.” Long fingers extend toward Cullen and he takes them: Dorian’s grip is firm and encompassing. “Shall we do it again next week?”

Cullen blinks, caught in the suddenness of his departure and the unexpected blow of the invitation. As he hesitates, their fingers linger together a few moments longer than is polite. When he withdraws his hand, he feels the start of a furiously dark blush. “Uh, sure. Sure, next week,” he says, smiling against the color tightening his cheeks.

“I’ll see you Friday, then.” Dorian rises with a grin and shoulders his bag, and once outside he sets off down the block at an easy trot.

Cullen squares up the remainder of the bill and walks back to his car. He feels at a loss, but there’s a kernel of warmth in his belly sitting at odds with the tension in his chest.

That, he decides after a bit of waffling back and forth while mentally reviewing Dorian’s smiles, was a date. And he’s got another one the following week.

He climbs behind the wheel of his car, fires the engine. Shakes his head in disbelief as he pulls onto the bridge entrance. Of course it would be now, after a near decade long dry spell. That’s just his luck, always has been. The master of abysmally poor timing. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now, Dorian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: This chapter contains more light drinking, as well as food mentions, in case those are a problem. Dorian's negative relationship with his father is discussed. There is also a mention of mild homophobia, just in case that sort of thing is upsetting to anyone. Otherwise, it's more of the same. Thanks for reading!

There’s a new email from Father; the first in three months. Dorian readies to direct it expeditiously to the trash, except the cursor doesn’t click when he taps—infernal inaccurate touchpad—and so, he hesitates. Each time he receives a new email, he hesitates. Even if he selects it and clicks delete the instant he spots it, in his mind there’s always a moment, brief and wriggling, where indecision crowds his rational thoughts.

The second attempt is successful. Deleted. No more chances. They’ve gone down this road before, and he knows no matter what route they take, the destination stays the same. Not to mention that Dorian is the only one truly doing any walking, and it’s miles and miles without shoes on a frozen tundra. All Father ever does is wait, comfortable and untouchable in his big house at the end of the road. He believes that Dorian will eventually stagger back through the door and plead amnesty, beg salve for his self-inflicted wounds.

_Oh Father, you were right all along. Woe, how selfish and blind I’ve been. Give me one more chance!_

No more chances.

He closes the browser tab, shuts the smooth silver laptop. Funny, Dorian thinks, what years of trying and failing to win love that is meant to be freely given will do to a person.

Mornings in the summer are far more bearable than those in winter. He leaves a curtain pulled aside in his room so early sunlight spills over him. He draws strength from it, lets it unfurl him. A long time ago he considered himself a night-blooming flower, but as he’s gotten older he finds mornings less unpalatable than he once did. It’s all ritual: dress, brisk trip around the block with his four-legged roommate, followed by a bowl of cereal to dampen the temptation to buy a scone to accompany his Americano at the café near the office.

At work, he’s busy. Outdoor changes are best made when the weather is good and he’s had constant projects, large and small, since early spring. It isn’t a huge office, nor does anyone stand on ceremony, but it’s modern and very green, both figuratively and literally: their environmental practices are top notch and they only work with developers and homeowners who are willing to be equally conscientious, and the office itself is filled to the brim with plants. The boss, Vivienne to friends, Miss De Fer to everyone else, is a stunning, wonderful woman who won’t tolerate a single cut corner, and it shows in the work they do. There’s a wall where they display the magazine features done on De Fer designs, and it never lacks for new content.

“All alone today, Dorian?” Vivienne asks him as she passes by his desk with a tray full of succulents, no doubt destined for the windowsill in the break room.

“I’m afraid my roommate wanted to sleep in.”

“Shame. I brought her a biscuit. Do see to that layout for the Dumar account by end of day, would you darling?”

“Posthaste.”

By noon, he’s wishing he brought the dog. He knows the sitter has her at the park already, with her usual group. Sera is a peculiar woman, as Dorian has learned on countless evenings out in her company, but she’s charming, reliable, and loves all the animals very much. It’s far more fun for the dog to be off with Sera than it would be for her to be asleep under Dorian’s desk, even with Vivienne coming by to gift her a biscuit.

He finishes his initial layouts for the Dumar account late in the afternoon, and spends the rest of his day poring over inspiration for a couple who want to transform their yard into an English garden. He’s been praised before for his ability to construct controlled chaos, but much of his recent work has been modern with a minimalist bent. Gathering reference is a necessary refresher.

At the end of the day, he says his farewells and departs. Once home, he feeds the dog, showers, and nibbles a handful of mixed nuts to stave off the growling in his stomach.

After he applies a spot of fragrance he spends five minutes choosing a shirt. It’s hot out; the sweaty, sticky height of summer that he absolutely adores and everyone else hates, but it means nobody blinks an eye at the low slung tanks which are his casual lifeblood. He settles for a mauve top with well worn jeans and rolls the cuffs up before he decides on a pair of slim white boat shoes. Perfectly reasonable attire for a beer on a patio somewhere, which is his intention for the evening, post-meditation.

Part of him wonders if Cullen won’t be there. If he was too forward last time, presumed too much and behaved too crassly to be considered good company by someone so obviously nervous and withdrawn. But Cullen stood close when they entered the pub, tolerated a rub of the shoulders as Dorian sidestepped another patron. Not to mention that he blushed prettily when Dorian suggested they repeat the occasion.

Still, Dorian wonders. It’s impossible not to. He’s stomped on toes before with men who broadcast mixed signals. Some straight fellows liked being flirted with—thought it a lark, impress the womenfolk—but as soon as things took a turn for the real, they up and ran with their tails between their legs. That’s if they didn’t snarl and clock you one for your troubles first. Cullen looks a little like that type: the ill-fitting t-shirt and plaid flannel working man crew that Dorian is so familiar with and even enjoys the company of, when they aren’t actively behaving badly. However, looking the part and playing it are very different beasts.

The first thing he sees when he walks into the meditation room is the blond back of Cullen’s head. Last row, third from the right, the curls on his nape spilling over the collar of a brick red t-shirt. Dorian ducks in just as Merrill heads for the front and urges everyone to begin their journey into stillness. He offers Cullen a quick smile hello and finds it warmly mirrored, which settles the uncertainties bubbling in his stomach.

Successful meditation is something that only comes with repeated effort. Dorian’s been at it for nearly a year now: the practiced breaths, clear head, acknowledging each thought before letting it slide away. Hold nothing, analyze nothing, let it come, and let it go.

It turns out to be remarkably difficult to stay inside his own mind when Cullen smells perfectly edible next to him. He’s wearing a touch of scent tonight—he has to be.

When the meeting wraps up they thank Merrill and skip the snack table, instead heading out into the street.

Dorian takes a big breath, and exhales it. Friday night lends itself well to expectations and potential, even if both often go unmet and unfulfilled. “So, what are you in the mood for?”

“Ah...” Cullen tucks a stray curl behind one of his ears and licks his lower lip. Bashful nervousness. There’s a stiffness in his shoulders that wasn’t there on their previous outing. If Dorian were younger, he’d assume he’s been too forward with someone uninterested, and that Cullen was looking for a way to defer. Now he knows better. Even if he didn’t, the pink in Cullen’s cheeks is a glaring hint otherwise, and the little upward turn at the corner of his lip is a dead giveaway. “I’m happy with a pint, but if you’re hungry?”

It’s a shock that Dorian’s stomach doesn’t growl on cue. “How do you feel about Japanese beer?”

Cullen nods. “Good. It’s good. The place down the block, then?”

They have to wait for a table in the heat of the evening, but the passersby and others in line are all happy; a distinct Friday atmosphere making the air around them lighter. It also turns out to be a perfect excuse to let their shoulders bump, several times, as they try to take up the least amount of space possible in the doorway. Cullen is solid; they’re about the same height, give or take, but he’s much thicker through the chest and arms, more of the same in the belly, and his hands are large and rough with calluses. Thinking too closely on it is pleasant but counterproductive. It’s too soon to gently nudge their knuckles together and take his hand, even if Dorian thinks he might get away with it.

Eventually they’re in, and they’re seated, and shortly after they both have cold beers in front of them. Cullen takes a long pull from his glass—nerves maybe, or thirst—then looks guilty to have drained half his pint in one go.

“Rough day?” Dorian asks.

There’s a strange flicker at the edge of Cullen’s expression before he smiles. “Just tired. Happy to be here, though,” he insists, as if the admission is an insult he needs to temper.

“Me too.” Dorian holds his glass out for a quick cheers. “To Friday night.”

They clink their glasses and drink.

“Forgive me for being overeager but,” Dorian picks up a menu, “I’m going to order an embarrassment of food. I had a light lunch and I’m starving.” He’s at that point in hunger when even tidbits he normally sticks his nose up at look appealing.

“I could eat.” Cullen has eyes on the daily specials. “What do you suggest?”

Decisions are reached, and when the waiter comes they both list off an array of dishes. Everything is perfect for sharing: small portions, bite sized tastes. They’ll have no trouble finishing between the two of them.

“Before I forget,” Dorian pulls his phone out of a pocket and creates a new contact. “Shall we exchange numbers?”

They trade phones, tap at the screens, pass them back a few moments later. Cullen’s is in a plain black case, zero embellishments. It’s a generation older than Dorian’s but there’s nary a scratch on it, unlike his. His, he’s dropped more than a few times while blind drunk, out on the town. Battle damage, according to Felix.  

“Do you mind the occasional text message?” Dorian asks.

“No, I don’t mind. Do you prefer that to uh, to calls?”

“I do. I’m afraid I’m one of those people.”

“Who isn’t, these days,” Cullen replies. It’s clear by his posture and tone that _he_ isn’t, but he seems reluctant to say so. “I take it this is your neighbourhood?” he asks, after another mouthful of beer.

Dorian smiles, happy to nod a yes. “I live a few blocks up, near the park. Admittedly it’s a bit dark in the winter time, but I love it. Heaven knows I’d prefer a place with a view of the bay, except you practically have to be a millionaire to afford a two bedroom, these days.”

“Ah, yes that’s... That’s why I left the city,” Cullen says. He seems wistful.

“Are you over on the North Shore?”

“Further,” he says, lifting his eyebrows.

“How far?”

“Quite a ways. You’ll think me ridiculous if I tell you.”

“Oh come now. East?”

“North.”

“Lion’s Bay?”

Cullen winces and sucks air in through his teeth. “Further.”

“Squamish?” Dorian ventures, eyes widening.

Cullen only shakes his head.

“Whistler, surely.”

“Almost.” He politely signals the waiter, makes a silent request for another beer. “Pemberton.”

Dorian blows out a soft breath in disbelief. “That’s a long drive. Do you commute every day?”

“Lately, yes. Not normally on weekends. Often enough we have work out there, or at least...closer to home than here.”

“But your current job is in the city?”

Cullen’s second beer arrives, and Dorian asks for another as well. He’s down to a few swallows; the first one always goes too fast.

“Our last few contracts have been. Good thing I like driving,” Cullen says, then laughs, shaking his head.

Dorian leans back. “Does that mean you’re a car man? Blazing down the highway in some hot little coupe?”

That gets a heartier laugh, even a soft snort. “No,” Cullen says, trying to contain it. “No, definitely not.”

“Hmm,” Dorian puts a hand to his chin, considering. “Let me guess. My first instinct is truck, I’m certain you’ve had a truck, but with a commute like that, I’m doubtful you’ve kept it... Hatchback, these days, more likely. Fuel efficient, tried and true.” He can tell he’s right by the grin spreading across Cullen’s face.

“You’re just guessing this?”

“I’m a good guesser. Shall I go on?”

Cullen raises a hand, indicating for him to continue.  

“I’d wager...manual transmission. People who enjoy driving prefer the feel of stick.” The double entendre hits: Cullen leans his head back and chuckles. Dorian chances one more guess: “For the colour, mm, a neutral. Dark gray.”

“Ah,” Cullen stops him. “It’s black.”

“That’s still a neutral! I was damn close. Oh, and I bet you have roof racks. Maybe even one of those ugly pod containers you strap to the top.”

More snickering across the table and Cullen rubs his stubble in disbelief. “Are you sure you didn’t see me getting out of it?”

Dorian shakes his head. “I haven’t the slightest notion where you’re parked.”

“Do you moonlight as a detective by any chance?”

“To be honest, it’s simply that I’m awful and I stereotype people on sight. Though I did play Sherlock Holmes once in a grade school production of Hound of the Baskervilles.”

“I can see it,” Cullen tells him, nodding. “Less mustache back then, I presume.”

“Yes, I was mustache-less in those days.” The memory drifts and he reaches for it, tugging it gently up. He huffs a laugh. “I recall our hound was someone’s coddled house pet mastiff, and he was not particularly convincing since he slobbered profusely and loved children. Spent all his stage time wagging his ponderous tail.” There are still photos of that play framed in his childhood home, somewhere. An ocean away. Dorian ignores the cinch on his heart.

“So you’re an actor too?” Cullen pours his second beer into his glass, then does the same for Dorian’s, which arrived moments after he began pouring. The act of pouring must’ve reminded their waiter to bring it.

“God no. No, I flirted with it in high school. Did a handful of Shakespeare productions, but my problem was I wanted to play every role and that doesn’t work well logistically.” He accepts the beer as Cullen slides it to him. “At the time, my Hamlet was described as reverential, whatever that might mean.”

“It sounds like a positive thing,” Cullen says. The first of their dishes start to arrive, and Dorian dives straight for the chicken skewers.

They’re silent for at least a whole minute as they sample from each plate. Dorian makes a mental note that Cullen’s idea of _I could eat_ means he’s plain old hungry.

“This is good.” Cullen pauses for a sip of beer.

“Have you never been before?” Dorian assumed he had, given that it was his suggestion.

He’s answered with a shake of the head. “I’d come back, though.”

All in a moment, Dorian registers the lovely pale honey colour of Cullen’s eyes. He’d noticed they were brown, sincere in the way of a trusting puppy, but not that they were golden at the center.

“Do I have something on my face?” Cullen asks with a creased brow, serviette in hand, that intermittent, ever-ready blush darkening the height of his cheeks.

Dorian’s lip twitches, keeping a grin contained to a smile. He shakes his head. “No,” he says.

That makes Cullen flush all the harder. In self-defense, he reaches for his beer, holds it up to his mouth. “Did you ever play Romeo, by any chance?” he asks over the rim of the glass.

The remark catches Dorian off guard and his jaw drops, ever so slightly. This is flirting. Cullen, big bashful Cullen, is flirting with him. “Not Romeo, no. But I have played Bottom,” he replies.

Cullen sputters slightly in his drink, then covers a cough with his fist. His heavy shoulders are shaking with subdued laughter and the sight of it sets Dorian chuckling too. One or the other of them ought to say something, but they’ve broken down into giggles like a couple of school boys. There are a thousand follow ups Dorian could make to the joke, but it can only worsen from here.

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream come true?” Cullen asks.

“Indeed. It was among my favorite roles.” Dorian composes himself and reaches for a hunk of grilled squid.

The smile on the other side of the table is full of mischief, the way it pulls the scarred side of Cullen’s lip. It makes him look altogether roguish. “I’ll bet,” he says finally.

It’s time to let it drop before they get any more embarrassing. “How about you, did you dabble in the performing arts as a youth?”

Cullen sweeps his bangs off his forehead and they fall back across it again. He seems used to it. “I sang in the church choir when I was a boy, before my voice changed. Learned some basic violin but on the rare occasion I got the notes right I could still never get it to...to sing, the way a good player can.” He nabs a slice of duck off one of the plates on Dorian’s side of the table. “Maybe my heart wasn’t in it.”

“Music can be fickle that way, but... You as a choir boy, now there’s an image.” He tilts his head in consideration. “Yes, wee blond curly-headed cherub, utterly adorable. That fits.”

The blush stays firmly in place. “All the little church ladies used to dote on me,” he admits. “I was... chubby-cheeked and shy, at the time.”

“I hope there are pictures of this somewhere.”

A snort, then Cullen rubs his eyes. “I sincerely hope there _aren’t_.”

They carry on this way, sharing small pieces of the past the same way they’re sharing dinner, until the food is gone and their glasses are empty. They split the bill, though Cullen insists on covering the tip.

“You overpaid last time,” he argues, and he won’t hear of any compromise. Much to Dorian’s gratification, he leaves a sturdy tip for their waiter.

Outside, the day’s heat is still heavy in the evening air. Cullen rolls his shoulders and looks off into the faded blue sky.

“You’ve got a long drive home,” Dorian says, realizing he’s probably kept him later than he should’ve.

Cullen only shrugs. “I’m used to it. That highway is fun in the summer. Winter...can get hairy.”

“Well, do be careful anyway. In your extremely practical vehicle.”

Cullen indulges him with another chuckle. “I’ll be careful.”

It’s time to say goodbye, but Dorian doesn’t want to, and it’s clear Cullen isn’t sure how. Dorian opts for a classic time-buyer: “Are you parked nearby?”

“Couple blocks away.”

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

Shoulder to shoulder, they head off into the tree-lined neighbourhood streets. Every inch of the world is buzzing with summer. The warmth, the patchy lawns, slow golden evenings, the electric possibility of it all—Dorian remembers the sensation from when he was young, in the time before the things he wanted became his undoing. It was so much simpler when your strongest burning desire was to take sailing lessons or conquer the high dive. Before you learned that those feelings you had about the hunky lifeguard were unnatural, and wrong.

He lets the thought come, and he lets it go.

“Ah, here she is,” he calls as they approach a black hatchback, complete with roof racks. It’s not brand new by any stretch, but it’s clean and there isn’t a scratch on it. No surprises there.

The lights flash as Cullen pushes unlock on his key. “Well, um...” He rubs at the back of his neck—his non-verbal language of uncertainty.

Dorian is a quick learner, as far as languages go. He steps forward, slow, then gently grips Cullen’s free hand by the palm and gives it a squeeze as he leans in. It takes a moment, but Cullen swivels his head and they kiss—chaste, quick. Just a soft peck on the lips. Hardly long enough to feel so much as a brush of Cullen’s stubble, and that is a crime.

“Next week is...shaping up to be nightmarish for me at work, but would you consider coming to the Tuesday meditation the week after?” Dorian asks. “I’ve a prior engagement that Friday but I’d hate to entirely deprive you of my company.” He releases Cullen’s hand a second later.

Cullen’s brows lift. The very tip of his tongue traces over his bottom lip, tasting the kiss. He gives a short, sturdy nod. “Sure. Next Tuesday.”

He climbs into the car and it rumbles to life. They wave to one another as Cullen drives off, disappearing around the corner at a stop sign.

Dorian feels light on his feet on the walk home. It’s only a few blocks, a short trip on a plodding day, but he’s standing outside his apartment before he even realizes it. Upstairs, he collects the dog and takes her out for her mid-evening stroll. She’s sedate, content to sniff the gardens along the street and pee before she makes it clear she’d rather be inside on the couch. Back in the apartment, Dorian rereads the note from Sera stuck to the fridge, complete with illustrations:

_BEACH VISIT~ LOTS OF RUNNING VERY FAST. Ate a crab maybe? Seemed chuffed, no barfing. SEE YOU MONDAY!!!_

“Well you certainly had a big afternoon, didn’t you?” he says to the dog. She hops up onto her corner of the couch and lies down with a dramatic sigh.

He sighs, too.

It’s been a long while since he’s liked someone this much, he realizes. What a stupid, awful feeling. He’s an adult—over the hill, by some standards—and adults aren’t supposed to turn to excited mush at the prospect of spending time with someone. Going a whole week without seeing him might be a mistake, no matter his schedule, but they can text. Dorian plans to text.

Two dates, the first one barely qualifying for the word, and he’s smitten. Ridiculous.

He’s losing his edge. In the kitchen he pops the cork out of a bottle of vodka and pours himself a shot. He touches his lips after, pressing into the lingering numbness of the alcohol. The momentary scratch of Cullen’s stubble is still with him; a thin thrill to cling to for the rest of the weekend.

That makes him slam his eyes shut. “You’re in trouble,” he mutters to himself. Blond, burly trouble.

Absolutely ridiculous.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Titania.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: More food mentions. We’re back in Cullen’s head, so cancer is discussed a bit more, as well. I confess, mostly this chapter is about the dog.

When the following Tuesday finally rolls around, it turns out to be one of the hottest days they’ve had all summer. 

There’s no AC at the build site—no shower either. Cullen withdraws to the unfinished basement suite on his lunch break for a few minutes of relief, but by end of day he’s miserable and dehydrated. He’s brought a clean shirt, thank god, but even a vigorous towel off in the car before he puts it on isn’t enough to help him feel human. No amount of deodorant can make him palatable for close quarters contact. 

Still, it’s too late to cancel. Besides that, he doesn’t want to. He’s spent the better part of two weekends now roaming the borders of his property checking the fences for rot, fixating on the idea that he can feel the tumor in his lung which, as his rational mind keeps repeating to him, is unlikely. Still, it left him too anxious to eat more than a couple paltry meals, and he slept poorly. The familiarity of insomnia provides no solace. 

Monday was easier. Weekdays are always easier. He prefers the rhythm of commute, work, commute, and sleep comes reliably at the close of it. The drive to and from the city is a practice in perfect motion; smooth acceleration and gear changes, one hand on the stick shift, one ear on the news or a podcast. It reminds him of meditation, in ways, and it puts his mind at ease. Once in the city, there’s distraction from start to finish: Hawke’s typical affability, arguing over who will pick up donuts, strings of creative cursing when someone drops their drill, a new problem with the plumber—it’s all straightforward. The day to day stuff that keeps his head quiet. 

Seeing Dorian is one level better. An escape into the sort of normal he’s never managed to have. 

Except when he remembers that sooner or later, he’s going to have to tell him. Part of him assumes the flirtation will peter out once Dorian gets a full grasp on how dull Cullen really is, and while that will hurt, he’s prepared for it. That’s a valid argument for base incompatibility. 

The cancer is more like a detonator: drop the word, and everything, everything will be blown away in a breath. 

He still hasn’t heard when he’s meant to go in for chemo. It’s a logistical nightmare, considering that everyone says you shouldn’t be alone afterward, shouldn’t drive. The treatment center is in the city, so getting home again will be a trial by fire. He might ask Cassandra if he can spend the night at her place, since he’s done that a few times to shorten his commute and she’s never been opposed. 

No sense in worrying about it until he knows it’s happening. It’s cold comfort, and does nothing to deter the flickering unease in the back of his head, but he must keep himself present as much as he can. Engage externally—so far, that’s the only way he’s found to stay sane. 

Dorian greets him with a squeeze to the thigh when he arrives five minutes after Merrill has begun their session. He smells freshly showered; there’s a hint of warm spice on him tonight. Different cologne, maybe.

For the third time in less than a month, they leave the meditation room together. Dorian touches his arm and asks if they can stop by his place before they head out for a pint and a bite.

“It’s not far,” he assures him. “A few blocks.” 

“I’d best not leave my car,” Cullen says, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“There’s a guest spot you can use.” 

So they climb into the black hatchback and Cullen waits for a pack of cyclists to pass before turning the wheel to pull out. Dorian points him west and they cruise slowly along the narrow road. Two additional cyclists seem to materialize from thin air, and Cullen prefers to give them plenty of room: he’s heard enough horror stories and he doesn’t need any more of his own. 

“Now,” Dorian says, “were I to turn your stereo on, what might be playing?” His mustache curls all the more mischievously when he smiles. “Classical? Ziggy Stardust era Bowie? Sufjan Stevens?” 

“Turn it on if you like,” Cullen says, unperturbed.

“Bravery in the face of judgement, I admire that.” His fingers hover over the power button, then withdraw. “Or do I prefer the mystery,” he says to himself. 

“Better find out now, in case whatever’s in there makes you lose all respect for me,” Cullen suggests. “Is it left up this way?”  

“Another couple blocks,” Dorian says. Following a few more moments of indecision, he taps the stereo on. It’s turned down low, and he eases the volume higher. When he registers the music his face seems to soften. “Huh,” he says. “M eighty-three.” He looks oddly serious. “Not one I would’ve guessed.” 

“It relaxes me,” Cullen tells him. 

A quick gesture from Dorian. “Left up here.”  

It’s an older building, not upscale but not shabby either. There are two spaces in the lot earmarked for visitors, and thankfully one is empty. 

“I’ll warn you, my roommate can be a bit forward at times,” Dorian says as they climb the stairs.

“Roommate?”  There’s been no mention of one in their conversations thus far. Surprising to hear about it outside the door of someone’s flat. 

“Of a sort.” 

They walk to the end of the hallway and Dorian pulls his keys from his pocket, jangling them in the old bolt lock. There’s skittering on the other side of the door, and as it opens a slim, whiskery snout tipped by a black nose pokes through the gap at waist level. “Yes, hello, thank you, out of the way please,” Dorian says to the creature. 

He opens the door and Cullen sees that it’s an extremely large, long, leggy dog with a shaggy white coat. It’s wagging an elegant fan of a tail and nosing Dorian’s hands. 

“This,” Dorian says, patting it, “is Titania. I suppose I should’ve asked if you were all right with dogs, how thoughtless of me. You’re not allergic, are you?” 

“No, no. I love dogs.” Cullen waits for her to approach him, relaxes his hands. She sniffs his palm and gives him a slow wag, so he carefully gives her a scratch under the chin. The wagging intensifies; he chances another one behind the ear. This inspires her to lean hard into it, and he laughs. 

“Oh there you go, you’ve got her all figured out already. Do you have a dog?” 

For a moment, all he can think about is a pointed black and tan muzzle, clever brown eyes. He misses that damn dog. “Not at the moment. Wouldn’t be fair, since I’m hardly home.” 

Dorian nods. “It’s good of you to think of the animal. I’m lucky, I work at a dog-friendly office. She accompanies me quite regularly. I wouldn’t have her if that weren’t the case.” 

She has exceptionally gentle eyes. Cullen marvels at the fact that Dorian would select an animal so large as a companion. Her jaws look powerful, bred to hold after giving chase. “Forgive me if this seems an odd remark, but I hadn’t pictured you as a dog person.” Titania sneezes and trots back to Dorian, where she leans against his legs as he ruffles the fur on her shoulders. Her long sweeping tail waves gently back and forth. “Especially not such a particular breed.”

“No? Really? But we share the same handsome profile!” Dorian turns his head and traces a finger over his aquiline nose. 

“A bit of a stretch.” Cullen laughs. “But you do both have very nice noses.” 

“Thank you. Her ears are significantly sillier than mine, though.” Dorian cups the dog’s face in both hands. “Aren’t they, darling? Miss silly ears.” She makes a play to lick his face and he dodges it before letting her go. “Actually, I wound up with her under false pretenses,” he says as she trots off around a corner, into what Cullen assumes is the bedroom. “The shelter had her listed as a greyhound-collie mix, which...she was just a puppy, so I suppose there’s a wide margin for error.” 

“She’s a rescue?” 

“My friend Felix—he’s a bleeding heart—drags me along to the shelter now and then because he can’t keep a dog at his place. He absolutely fell in love with her. It was all, ‘Dorian. Dorian, you have to take her, look at her little face!’ Her little face which was, naturally, full of sharp puppy teeth and hellbent on destruction.” 

“As all puppies are.” 

“Quite. Pushover that I am, I caved. I’d been thinking of getting a cat anyway.” 

Titania reenters with a thoroughly chewed rope toy dangling from her jaws, which she gives a sound thrashing before bringing it to Cullen.

“My, that was quick. You get the dreaded rope pully treatment already.” Dorian looks genuinely surprised. “Come on now, Nia, give the humans five minutes to settle in.”   

Cullen grabs hold of the toy and lets the dog tug at it. “Does she need a walk?” She isn’t fully invested in their tug o’ war, and she’s heard the word walk. Her ears perk. “Whoops, now I’ve said it.” 

“It couldn’t hurt. Shall we take her?” 

They head into the park, which seems to be familiar territory for both Dorian and Titania. It’s lively, but not busy. Runners trot along the pathways and groups of tourists snap photos of the harbour. Kids are shouting and playing somewhere in the invisible distance. It’s a hot night, but there’s a breeze blowing off the water and it lowers the ambient temperature. It’s especially bearable in the shade. 

Near the marina there’s a large fenced-in field, and Dorian unclips Titania’s leash. “She comes when she’s called,” he says, as if sensing Cullen’s nerves flaring. “We’ve worked carefully on that.” 

“Even if she sees something fun to chase?” 

“She’d rather play with the other dogs. She’s gregarious, rather like me.” 

There are several dogs in the park, down along the shoreline: a border collie and the requisite lab, plus a few other mutty looking creatures. Titania trots over to them and after some necessary sniffing, three of them set off on a merry caper in the shallows. 

People respond to Titania, and to Dorian. As a pair they’re formidable: two beauties with dazzling smiles. Cullen feels like a scruffy interloper, wishing as he rubs the side of his jaw that he shaved that morning. At least they weren’t dealing with dusty building materials today on the job. Considering he’s been sweating freely since nine a.m., every speck would be clinging to him. And thank god, again, that he remembered to shove that clean, relatively new t-shirt in his bag before he left the house. 

They don’t talk much until they leave the dog park, and the gaggle of other owners, behind. Titania is wet to the shoulder and looks pleased with herself, but she also seems happy to be heading back to the apartment. 

“Sometimes we go across the bridge,” Dorian gestures vaguely toward the inlet. “Up to the forest on the North Shore. Or over to Spanish Banks. She has a ball there.” 

“A bit more space to stretch those legs.” Cullen has no doubt she’d be an impressive sight running at speed. 

“She loves it. You should come with us sometime,” Dorian says. “This weekend, maybe? If you don’t mind the drive.” 

He rarely, if ever, minds the drive, and if it means spending time with Dorian... “I’d be happy to.”  

“Saturday?” 

“Sure. Morning is better, I assume? It’s bound to be hot.” 

“Oh... Yes, I suppose it is.” Dorian looks down at panting Titania, who isn’t suffering but is clearly feeling the heat. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to rise at the crack of dawn to get here, won’t you?” 

Cullen shrugs. “I’m up anyway.” His dubious claim to fame in basic training was being the only cadet who never had a groggy morning. Even before basic he was an early riser; the first of his siblings down the stairs, rain or shine. Except when it came to Christmas—then his little brother and sister had him soundly beaten. “It just means I’ll drink my coffee in the car instead of on my back porch.” 

“If you’re certain you don’t mind.”

He smiles. “It’ll be fun.” 

They take Titania back to the apartment and make their way to a Thai place, where Cullen learns that Dorian prefers his curry spicy enough to kill a man. It would be funny, if it didn’t aggravate his throat and by extension his damned unshakeable cough. Whenever that happens his mood plummets—like waking from a rare, comfortable dream of lying in someone’s arms only to blearily understand that you’re alone. You’ve been alone a long time. 

He forces himself to rally by joking that he’s just too white to handle it. 

Dorian, thankfully, only sees the humorous side of his plight. His brightness and gracious laughter are balm. In the midst of it all, he orders some fluffy coconut milk drink and foists it on Cullen. “It helps,” he insists. 

And it does. They share the drink, but not the curry after that. 

At the end of the night he wonders if Dorian might ask him up. Except it’s a work night, and Cullen is grungy, and he isn’t sure he’s ready for whatever comes after he climbs those stairs expressly to spend time in Dorian’s apartment. Coming up is different than stopping by, and it’s been years since...well. Since Cullen’s been in the position of being asked to do either. 

Halfway through the return walk to his building, Dorian knits their fingers together. It’s loose, easy affection, and Cullen prays his clammy palms aren’t as bad as he feels they might be. Other than his nerves gnawing at him, it’s nice. Comfortable. Like he was made to fit exactly where he stands, for once. 

When they reach the parking lot Dorian pauses. 

“I’d ask you to come up, but I’d hate to keep you too late on a weeknight,” he says. 

So close. Cullen sighs. “Work tomorrow.” It’s half relief, half disappointment. “Besides, I’m filthy. I don’t think you especially want me on your furniture like this,” he adds, glancing down at his jeans. 

Dorian’s hand curls tighter around his. “I’ve never minded a little dirt.” He nudges their noses together and Cullen closes his eyes, pressing into the kiss. Dorian’s tongue darts against his lips and he parts them, but it’s over a second later. “We’ll see you Saturday,” Dorian says, backing away toward the building’s rear door. “Text me.” 

“Right.” Cullen stands empty-handed, then takes a step toward his car. It doesn’t feel like a stopping point. A glance over his shoulder tells him Dorian is in the midst of fishing out his keys. Cullen turns on his heel and trots to him.

“Forget something?” Dorian asks, incredulous grey eyes wide. 

“You might say that.” Cullen slides a hand over Dorian’s hip and tugs him into another kiss. Rougher, but still playful. Dorian’s arm snakes around his shoulder and he digs his fingers into the hair on Cullen’s nape, the scrape of his short fingernails making Cullen grunt. Their tongues press, slip; there’s a hint of teeth. Cullen pulls away first, only to discover Dorian’s other hand tangled in the hem of his shirt. As the gap between them widens, Dorian’s fingers fall to his side and he brings a thumb to his mouth to fix his mustache. He’s staring as he catches his breath, lip curled at the corner. In a movement, he unlocks the door, swings it open halfway. The gesture isn’t exaggerated, but the offer is clear.  

Cullen bites his lip and takes a step backward. “Saturday,” he repeats, smiling before turning and jogging back to his car. 

As he pulls out onto the street, he sees Dorian still standing there. For a moment he wonders if he’s made a mistake, if he should’ve stayed. If he’s crossed the line by being too brazen when it’s only their third date. The look on Dorian’s face was amiable enough, but an invitation refused sometimes comes off as a dismissal when—

A text makes his phone buzz on the passenger seat. At the next red light, he glances at it: 

_ I’ll get you for that  _

He laughs, puts the phone back down. Turns the stereo on and dials the volume up as he merges onto the highway. It’s getting late, and the traffic is light. 

Without a doubt, he knows he’s made the right call. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Failing at Friday night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Mentions of past relationships, especially Dorian/Bull. Casual drinking and food mentions yet again. This is a bit of a stepping stone chapter, but at least Sera is here?

It’s unusual, the things that change as you get older. When Cullen texts—nothing major: lunchtime hellos, contractor humor, Shakespeare puns—Dorian answers back. They chat on and off in passing, most days, and it’s easy. A fond interaction by proxy.

Letting that fondness show is nothing shy of a miracle.

Younger Dorian would be playing hard to get. He’d leave texts unanswered every so often, to make clear that his attention was divided. He’d invent reasons to say no to the first day or time offered for a date, negotiate something a couple days later, contingent on the weather or his own whims. He’d make the man work for every second they spent together, make it all seem tenuous at best so if they wanted it, they’d have to hang on for dear life. Pursue him, even in the midst of kissing him. Always just shy of fully having him, of fully holding his attention.

And in that way, he knows without a shadow of a doubt, younger Dorian would’ve forfeit his chance with Cullen before they managed a second date.

What younger Dorian didn’t know was that not everyone was interested in the chase. Cullen, he suspects, would’ve taken off running in the opposite direction at the first sign of shenanigans. He’s the steady type—not insecure, but no patience for posturing or cagey machinations.

Most men were not only keen, it was the only thing keeping them piqued. Not to mention they were all playing games of their own. Be unattainable, become the ideal. Withhold.  

But being unattainable meant that you lived the hunt, never a moment’s rest or vulnerability. And you ended up weeding out the ones who were unwilling to run after you, which didn’t, as he’d assumed back then, necessarily mean they didn’t want you badly enough. What it did mean was eventually the hunter would catch up. As soon as you got comfortable, expressed too much genuine interest, the game was done and the bed left cold.

Until Bull.

Ah, Bull. He’s been thinking of him again, since meeting Cullen.

With his one gray-green eye, Bull saw straight through Dorian’s various bluffs, and he played the game by calling a spade a spade. Dorian would ignore his messages for a day or two, and then there’d be a voicemail: _You’re ignoring me so I’ll get hungry for it. Here’s the thing: I’m always hungry._

And he wasn’t kidding. His appetites, sexual and otherwise, were voracious. Dorian initially thought him a personal trainer or professional body builder, but as it turned out his body was a hobby left over from his time in the military. By day, Bull was a therapist who specialized in dysfunctional couples.

Irony of ironies.

Dorian never stood a chance. Bull gave him all the room he wanted, and because he didn’t want it at all, he inevitably wound up going to him. There’d be no chastisement, no frustration; only warmth and welcome. _Knew you’d be back. Good to see you._

Acceptance, absolvement. No need to pretend.

Of course there was a catch. There was always a catch.

He’s waiting to see what it is with Cullen, which is partly why he’s been thinking of Bull these past couple weeks. He could make guesses, but what’s to gain by that? For now, he prefers basking in the anticipation. Cullen as concept as opposed to person. That sweet, delicate newness of mutual liking, exquisite as fresh honeycomb.

Or perhaps something slightly less disgustingly romantic. He’s not even speaking aloud and he’s embarrassing himself. He replies to Cullen’s latest text and puts the phone in his pocket.

“You’re all moony-eyed,” Sera says to him. “Sparkles n’ stars n’ shit, yeah? You get laid or something?”

Dorian snorts. “Why, would you like to hear every grisly little detail?”

“Tch, right, so that’s no. Didn’t think I’d seen any strange undies at your place lately.”

“How would you know they weren’t mine?”

“That’s piss-easy, yours are those fancy-dancy ones with made up names on ‘em.”

She’s not wrong. “Fair enough.”

They’re out in the park, eating ice cream while Titania stares them both down, dark eyes all the larger for her begging.

“Noodle wants her own cone, right?” Sera says to her. “Sorry, lady. I’ll save you a nubby bit.”

It’s Friday, and they’re meant to meet up with a group of friends tonight, ostensibly to celebrate Dorian’s birthday that he doesn’t want mentioned or acknowledged or made into an event of any kind. It fell on the Wednesday and he bought himself a box of macarons and ignored his phone all evening, pretending it was any other regular day of the year. Sadly, the Friday plans are longstanding ones, and there’s no getting out of them.

Sera’s crowd skews younger but it’s pleasant enough since most of them are women. There’s the occasional IPA-drinking male, but they rarely bother him beyond questioning him in earnest about the care and maintenance of his facial hair. He’s perfectly happy to give advice in that regard, especially if it will spare the world yet another bad twenty-something beard.

Sera chomps down the remainder of her ice cream cone, leaving the end piece in her palm. She extends it to the dog, who laps it up and chews it as if it’s a dainty tea cake, which makes Sera giggle. “Princess, this one,” she says. Titania licks her chops, turns her long snout to Dorian in hopes of more.

He sighs and lets her finish the stub of his as well.

“Oh,” Sera says, first stretching, then hopping to her feet on the bench and tightroping along the back. “Krem’s coming with us tonight. Last minute, forgot to say.”

Dorian stands, dusts his palms on his thighs to disperse crumbs. “Ah.” Wherever Krem goes, Bull is sure to be close behind. Which is too bad, because Dorian quite likes Krem and enjoys his company, but he isn’t sure he’s in any mood for The Bull. He isn’t ready. It’s been almost four years, but he’s not sure he’ll be ready for Bull ever again.

“Pbbttt, don’t get all sad mustachey about it,” Sera complains.

He frowns and follows after her along the footpath. “Aren’t I invariably mustachey? Given that my mustache doesn’t come and go at will?”

“Does too if you shave it, smarty-pants.”

He shoots her a look. She’s right, of course, not that he’d contemplate going without it. “Maybe I’m growing a beard,” he snaps back.

“You ever have the other kind of beard? Like, the lady kind, where you pretend you’re all straight at parties? I could do that.”

“Yes, the pair of us would make extraordinarily convincing heterosexuals, to be sure.”  

She laughs and finishes with a theatrical gagging noise. “Okay but ever noticed every man with a beard looks sorta same-ish? Like, eyes, nose, wham! Bristly face-nest! Where’s the rest of him, right?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He knows exactly what she’s talking about, he just can’t bring himself to admit it. He’s made the mistake before, confusing having a beard for handsomeness. Embarrassing.

“Girls always look more different to me,” she says with a shrug. “Mustaches are funny, though. Like, yours does stuff when you make faces. When you pout it goes all droopy.”

“You’re anthropomorphizing my mustache.”

“Anthra-pomfizz yourself, I’m just saying. It droops.”

He feels droopy, after hearing that Krem will be joining them for the evening. Few things in life come with guarantees, but Krem and Bull are as inseparable as water and wet. Bull will be there, and that’s that. It was supposed to be a night out to blow off a little steam, not a potential awkward run-in with an ex he has to pretend he got over years ago.

“You know, I remember now that I have an early morning tomorrow,” he says.

Sera answers with a groan. “Nope. Nope!” She grabs Titania’s lead and the two shoot off down the block. “You’re coming!” she hollers over a shoulder.

Dorian sighs. When he catches up outside his building, he’s resigned himself to his fate. “Give me ten minutes to do my makeup,” he says.

Another groan. She insists on following him back upstairs. “It’s never ten minutes with you and those swoops.” She gestures at her own face, indicating the eyelids. “And no way am I hanging ‘round waiting on your nails to dry, so stuff that before you even think it!”

*

It’s still relatively relaxed and uncrowded when they arrive to the venue. Normally he’d never bother going so early, but people in their twenties are broke and he remembers the feeling well, so a burning desire to avoid paying full cover is something he understands. Besides, sometimes it’s nice to have a half-hour window where you can come and go from the bar without shouldering through a sea of sweaty bodies.

Inside, his eyes light up at the sight of Felix, already mingling with Sera’s friends. Dorian sweeps in and hugs him first, planting a smooch on the side of his shorn head. It’s been over a week since they’ve seen one another: Felix has been locked away with his research at the university, and if Dorian is honest there are days when he’s jealous. If events had played out differently when he was younger, if he’d managed to keep up a charade another two years or three, he might be working in the lab alongside him.

Best not to dwell on missed opportunities.

He exchanges polite cheek kisses with several women there he’s met many times, one of them a head taller than he is with shoulders wide enough to make him consider renewing his gym membership. Sera seems to have a thing for the tall ones.

As advertised, Krem joins them moments later, and he gives Dorian a rough, happy hug, complete with hard slaps on the back. They did always like one another. Break ups inevitably redrew those lines in sad ways.

“So, Felix, dear boy,” Dorian says, turning back to him. He leans against the bar, ready to order when the bartender has time for them. “Catch me up. What’s my favorite mad botanist been studying this week? How are your plants?”

It’s a surefire way to put a twinkle in Felix’s eye, asking about the health and welfare of his plants.

The bar fills up rapidly after ten o’clock. People are hitting their stride for the night, arriving to stay for a while instead of stopping in en route elsewhere. The music gets turned up, and somebody mentions they heard there might be a band, but if there is they’re starting late. There’s no equipment on the stage.

He’s two drinks in with a third on the bar when out of the corner of his eye he notices a familiar, massive silhouette darkening the doors. Bull is twice the size of both bouncers and it’s apparent by the way one of them peers in through the entranceway after him that they don’t like the implications, should their services be required. They must be new. When Bull was still his Bull, every bouncer in the city knew him and loved him because he had an uncanny knack of doing their jobs for them.

Dorian moves to bow out before he’s trapped into small talk. He eyes up the layout of the bar, decides to go via the west wall, which will take him the long way around but keep him furthest from the clear areas.

A hand closes around his arm and he looks over to see Felix giving him a glare. “Really?” Felix asks.

“Yes, really.” Dorian thrusts his untouched drink at him. “Here, take it. That’s sort of like an apology.”

Felix rolls his eyes because the music’s too loud for his trademark sigh to be heard over the din. “You two were civil at that party last month. Why not tonight?”

“Felix, we’re always civil. Civil isn’t the problem. Besides, that house was well laid out for avoiding people. Lots of small rooms and doors.” He glances into the crowd and notes that Krem has gone to usher Bull over to the group. He leans in and pecks Felix on the cheek. “Coffee on Sunday. I’ll text you.”

Behind him he hears, “Honestly, Dorian...” but he ignores it, bumping through the crowds and out into the soupy night air.

The truth, and what he can’t afford to admit to anyone, least of all himself, is that he does want to see Bull. Some messy, hurting part of him misses the big lug. It was the kind of relationship he never would’ve believed existed until it happened to him. Over, but not over. Tough to let go, since their effect on one another is a constant.

It’s hard, admitting you love someone and knowing, in a truth clear as stinging ice water, that you can’t make it work. Not because it’s anybody’s fault, not because of any grand betrayal or mistreatment; but simply because there are some things about themselves a person can’t change.

Dorian glances at his watch. He wonders if maybe Cullen is still in town, if he stayed to get a pint with his coworkers or another friend and if he might still get hold of him. Even if he can’t, he usually answers nighttime texts. His phone is in his hand before he recognizes old habits stiffening his fingers. Poor show to admit he cancelled, that he bailed on a perfectly nice crowd to avoid seeing an ex because he’s a coward. Even with Cullen, with whom he wants to be an available, reasonable adult, there has to be some illusion that his life is his own.

When he was young, he told himself that it made the people he chose to spend time with feel good too, that they were part of a carefully selected entourage. Special, because he made room for them in his busy schedule.

What an arrogant little prick he used to be. God, how could anyone stand him in those days? At least he grew out of that. Somewhat. He’s better than he used to be but old habits, as they say...

It’s still early, by Friday standards. There’s a late night grocery on the way home, and he does a quick swing through to pick up milk, a couple cheeses, a baguette that feels like it might not harden to bedrock overnight—though he has a few tricks for reviving it should that come to pass. They’ll be hungry after their walk tomorrow and he’s hoping to have Cullen for the afternoon. He’ll crack open a bottle of wine and they can sit on the balcony under the umbrella and picnic in the shade of the trees lining the block. The dog won’t want for company, and it’ll be as private as they need it to be.

Dorian hopes they’ll need a little privacy at some point tomorrow.

Back home, Titania is happy to see him, though she’s more interested in his grocery bags and her nose is nearly long enough to reach to the bottom of them to fish out whatever interests her. “You can’t have the cheese, I’m very sorry,” he tells her. “This baguette is a good likeness of you, though, don’t you think?”  

She wags her tail. Hoping he’ll drop the baguette, no doubt. He runs her outside one last time for the night—she refuses to stay awake much past eleven-thirty and gives him a pained stare if he tries to take her outside later—then he curls up on the sofa with a book he’s been meaning to read for three weeks.

There’s a text from Sera around midnight: _CAN’T BLEVE U LEFT! ARSE!!_

He can think of no cutting rejoinder. It makes him feel old, but at the same time being as old as he is also makes him immune to her colorful concern.

He’s not so old that he won’t stay up far later than is good for him reading, however. A habit he’s indulged since childhood, though at least he no longer has to hide under his covers with a flashlight. His staying up, he insists to himself, has nothing to do with being excited to see Cullen in the morning. With an exhale, he pushes his glasses out of the way so he can rub the bridge of his nose.

“Ridiculous,” he says aloud.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Best laid plans...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Casual drinking, as usual. A little bit of mild PTSD and some dance floor shenanigans. Anders/Garret Hawke mention right at the start here, in case that's not so nice for anyone.

The week seems to take turns dragging and flashing past in a blur. Cullen spends Thursday evening with Hawke and Anders and their playful beast of a dog, who weighs about a hundred and thirty pounds and treats Cullen like a long lost littermate. There’s no escaping that household without being lavishly drooled on, but in truth he doesn’t mind.

Temperatures have stayed high, so they barbecue. Hawke takes the helm in a novelty apron, and Anders chops vegetables and talks about the community garden he’s helping put together in the neighbourhood. Near the end of the night, he shows Cullen a box of very young kittens ensconced with their mother under the kitchen table. She’s relaxed, soft-eyed as Anders strokes behind her ears.

“Do you want one, when they’re older?” Anders asks him.

Cullen hesitates. He’s thought about it before, how it might be nice. He hasn’t had a cat in the house since childhood, but now that his health has taken a sharp turn for the worse it wouldn’t be wise.

“Ask Cass and Josie,” he says.

“I did,” Anders smiles. “They’re taking the pale brown tabby with the heart-shaped nose.”

Cullen realizes he would’ve chosen the same one.

On the following afternoon there’s a call from the cancer clinic. A kind young woman confirms a starting date for his chemotherapy, and gives him a short rundown of what to expect at his appointment. Instead of going home at the end of the day, he attends the Friday meditation session alone. Twice in a week seems a bit much, but he needs the quiet companionship. He knows Dorian won’t be there, that they expressly met up on Tuesday because he had other plans, but part of him hopes that maybe...

Of course he isn’t there. Cullen doesn’t sleep well that night.  

Saturday morning, he wakes before the sun rises. Dawn is pink and promising, the only time of day the heat isn’t oppressive. After a light breakfast he drives the highway into town. They agreed to meet at a park with a variety of trails weaving into the local mountains, and when Cullen pulls into the dusty lot, Dorian and Titania are unloading from a sleek gray early ‘90s Porsche.

“Are you kidding me,” Cullen mutters. He climbs out of his car with a wave.

Titania begins wagging her tail as soon as he starts to approach. Dorian is wearing dark sunglasses and clutching a travel mug as if the outcome of loosening his grip will be death. “Morning,” he says. Not good, just morning.

Cullen chuckles and leans to kiss him on the cheek, right below the beauty mark. He gives Titania a scratch behind the ear. “Nice car,” he says, nodding at it.

“Oh, this old thing? When it’s running,” Dorian replies. “Which is irregularly.”

“So _you’re_ actually the car man, then,” Cullen says as they walk toward the trailhead.

“I confess, I like the look of it, but I’d be remiss to let you think I knew a damn thing beyond that. Well, aside from how to drive it.” Dorian glances around, apparently judges the environment safe—no one else in the lot, no traffic—and unclips the dog’s leash. She heels alongside them instead of taking off like a shot, which is a surprise.

“I’ve always been a little skeptical of rear-engined cars for safety reasons,” Cullen says, “but I’m betting it’s...nicely calibrated.”

With a tilt of the head, Dorian lowers his sunglasses to peer at him over the tops. “If you promise not to speed I’ll let you take her for a spin sometime.”

They make their way slowly up the gently sloping, well-marked path, until they reach a wide open field. On cue, Titania breaks into a full run, sweeping to and fro in the long grass at forty miles an hour. She looks both crazed and graceful; an exceptionally beautiful and equally ridiculous animal. She’s happy taking turns snuffling and loping on her own while Dorian and Cullen idle in the shade of a few evergreens.

Dorian, in spite of being dressed suitably for the outdoors, still looks more put together than Cullen ever can. His attempts at formal wear are roughly half as composed as Dorian’s dog walking attire.

“You look nice today,” he tells him.

“Preserve me, the day I wear sweats and sneakers is the day I get a compliment.” He pulls his sunglasses off to make eye contact, reassuring Cullen that it’s meant in good humor.

Cullen scoffs, nudges him with an elbow. “I’m impressed, is all.”

“Of course you are, I’m impressive.” Dorian leans into him, to nudge their shoulders together. He’s got a Cheshire cat’s grin on his face.

There’s nobody nearby that Cullen can see, so he puts an arm gently around Dorian’s waist and kisses him half on the lips. In response, Dorian slips a hand into the back pocket of Cullen’s shorts and squeezes, making Cullen jump. The kiss deepens, though it’s a tentative, testing thing. When they hear a rush of stampeding paws, they stop.

Titania has bombed back over to them and a series of shouts from up the trail announce the arrival of a trio of cyclists, so they pull apart to hold onto the dog as the group passes by.

“Most of the time you can go hours up here without seeing another soul,” Dorian says with a shake of the head. “Of course the day I bring a man along we won’t have a moment’s peace.”

As universal laws would have it, the trail is busy after that.

Morning comes on in full, temperatures climb, and they decide to loop back before they lose all the shadows. Near the parking lot Dorian pauses and tugs his phone out of a pocket. “Oh. Shit.”

“Everything all right?”

He sighs a long breath. “I...have to go into the office for a few hours. It’s been such a zoo lately.” His fingers tap away at the screen. “Damn. I’d hoped we might have some lunch together.” He tucks his phone away again.

“Ah.” Cullen wonders if this is the day. If Dorian’s finally worked out just how dull he is in his green khaki shorts and old blue t-shirt with the hole in the armpit. Nonetheless, it’s too soon to repeat the drive home. To justify it, he’ll have to find something else to do. “Well, I’ve a few errands to run this afternoon. You could...let me know when you finish, and if I’m still in town we can, uh...” He rubs the back of his neck, stricken with worry that he sounds desperate. For a few seconds, he’s certain Dorian will say _no, thank you, I’m trying to shrug you off, kindly take the hint._

A palm curves around his arm. “Perfect,” Dorian says. “I’m sorry about the interruption.”

Relief lets Cullen breath again. “No, no, I understand.”

Dorian clips Titania to her lead. “I’ll text you, hopefully not too late.”

They part ways, and Cullen ponders how to best while away the hours.

Errands—crucial or recreational—are perfect for keeping busy. All afternoon he cruises around the city, picking up this and that to fill his pantry, closet, shower, or tool cabinet. Around three he sits down with a latte, a muffin, and a paper on the patio of a bustling café in an outdoor mall. He’s trying not to check his phone too often. Killing time is a skill he possesses, and he doesn’t mind waiting, but if Dorian texts he doesn’t want to leave him hanging in case he thinks he’s given up and left for home. He’s just wandered through a department store and bought himself a new duvet cover—something he’s needed for roughly five years and he might as well have it now or it might be never—when he feels the buzz of a message:

_Free at last. Still want to meet up?_

He waits a moment, until he’s in the driver’s seat in the parking lot, to reply.

 _Your place in 30?_ He sets his phone aside and starts the car.

 _We’ll be here_ , pops up a few minutes later, while he’s creeping toward the bridge at a glacial pace.

Man and dog are loitering in the building’s small garden when he arrives. “My god, you’ve been on an expedition,” Dorian says at the sight of his bags. “Don’t leave those in the car.”

“Do things get taken in this neighbourhood?” Cullen asks, hauling out an armful.

“Sometimes.” Dorian holds the building door for him. “Truthfully I’m just being nosy—I want to see what you got.”

They troop upstairs, where there’s a plate of cheeses and olives on the countertop along with a baguette and a bottle of wine.

“Is red okay?” Dorian holds up a corkscrew

“Lovely.”

Wine poured and in hand, true to his admission, Dorian begins perusing through Cullen’s bags one at a time. “Lush? Really?” He looks cheery about the discovery.

“Cass and Josie’s influence,” Cullen admits. They gifted him three soaps for Christmas the year previous, and he sneered at the things until he ran out of his usual stuff and tried one. Then there was no going back.

Dorian settles in next to him on the couch and grips his forearm. “No wonder you always smell so good.” He reaches for yet another bag and eyeballs the contents. “Feel free to swat me away if there’s something you’d rather I not pry into,” he says.

Cullen shrugs, laughs. “There isn’t a single exciting thing in any of those bags.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Dorian pulls out a three pack of cotton boxer briefs and holds them up.

With a sigh Cullen reaches to take them from him. He’d already forgotten he bought those.

“Ah! Now we’re talking.” From the same bag, Dorian produces a pair of gray jeans and a v-neck t-shirt in soft peach cotton. “I wouldn’t have guessed that was your color but,” he holds it up to Cullen’s cheek, “I suppose it is, isn’t it.”

“It was on sale.”

A chuckle from Dorian. “Care to model them so I can pass judgment?”

Cullen laughs and sips his wine. He swallows, and realizes Dorian means it. “You... You’re serious?”

His mustache gives a quick twitch. “Humor me.”

So Cullen withdraws into the bedroom at Dorian’s behest and changes into the crisp new outfit. He never intended either item for anything other than day to day wear, destined to be destroyed at work in short order. That is, if... If his treatment leaves him with enough strength for work. He shakes the thought off. After a once over to be sure he’s tugged free all the tags and stickers, he steps back into the living room.

Dorian is standing there with his arms folded, wine still in hand. He raises his brows. “Not bad. Turn.”

Cullen scoffs, but Dorian insists with a spin of his finger, so he turns once in place.

Wine set aside on a high shelf—no doubt to keep it out of reach of Titania’s sweeping tail—Dorian walks up and adjusts the hem of the t-shirt. “Jeans are a little loose,” he says.

“I’ve, um, a bit more of a belly when I sit,” Cullen admits, feeling the blush starting.

“What, this?” Dorian strokes a knuckle down the center line of his abdomen, all the way to the waistband of the jeans. “You’re substantial,” he says. “I like that about you.”

“Oh you do, huh?”

Dorian takes a step back to look Cullen up and down, tongue slipping across his full lower lip in contemplation. Finally, he smiles. “Very much.” He collects his glass of wine and waves for Cullen to rejoin him on the sofa.

It’s amicable in the sunny apartment, the evening light lending everything a rich haze. They talk, tease each other, work away at the bottle of wine. At some point Dorian suggests they order dinner and when that’s finished, Cullen reluctantly begins to wonder if it might be time for him to leave. There’s been a line of tension between them all day, sparking hot then cooling again, and it seems intentional. Like he’s being kept at a very slight distance. Dorian doesn’t give the impression he’s bored or disinterested, but he is staying just out of reach. Allowing glancing blows here and there, but nothing concrete.

Dorian clinks his empty wine glass onto the shelf next to him and inhales sharply. “Do you want to go somewhere?” he asks.

“Somewhere?”

“Yes. You know. Out.” Dorian smiles, his gray eyes soft. “Like say...for a spot of dancing?”

Exactly what he feared. Cullen rubs the back of his neck and starts to laugh. “Do I look like I can dance to you?”

“Oh please, all anyone does is stand there and move vaguely and sweat. You’ll fit right in.”

Cullen blows out a puff of air, then nods. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Their walk takes them a few blocks over to a club with a lineup just starting to form, but Dorian nods a greeting at the bouncer, who nods back and motions him to lean in. They exchange words in low tones, then the man barks a laugh, claps him on the shoulder, and lets them both through the doors. Some private, long-standing arrangement, perhaps; Cullen doesn’t ask.

It’s loud. Busy. He knows that’s only his perception, that in an hour the action in the place will intensify to a roar. Five years ago he would’ve stopped cold outside, unable to make it inside without panic rising to close his throat. He stays on Dorian’s heels as they walk to the bar, where he asks what Cullen wants.

“Surprise me,” he says into his ear. Dorian gently cups the back of Cullen’s head in affirmation, his face and shoulders angled away as he seeks the bartender’s attention.  

Groups are crowding around both bars on either side, and the dance floor is an entity in flux. More and more people are spilling out onto it as the tempo of the music starts to rise. Dorian moves like a creature in its element: even his cash exchanges with the bartender are flawless, never a slip. Cullen tries to offer to cover them but Dorian only shakes his head and smiles, slides him something chilled and vodka-based a minute later.

They withdraw into the relative quiet of a corner near some seating to turn their eyes on the floor. Mostly, Cullen watches Dorian. He seems perfectly at ease, not a hair out of place, skin glowing in the different washes of neon light. His bare shoulder is pressed tight against Cullen’s where they stand, but his eyes rove across the flood of human action, basking in it.

It’s a subtle shift, but halfway through their drinks the music grinds a few decibels higher. The tacit agreement becomes that everyone on the floor is there to move, and anyone on the edge of the fray will be pulled in. They’re far enough away to be safe, but something in the bassline is vaguely unsettling and Cullen finds himself tensing and relaxing his empty fist. Close to a decade removed from anything resembling a battlefield and it still grates. He shuts his eyes to will it away. A hand touches his side and he startles just enough to splash a drop of his drink on his shirt.

“You all right?” Dorian says into his ear.

Cullen manages a nod. Barely, he thinks. Barely.

“We can go?” Dorian mouths, gesturing toward the front. He looks concerned, so Cullen shakes his head and smiles. It’s all a matter of acclimating, like driving a new clutch. Can’t expect to hit the shift just so on a first try. He swallows a gulp of his drink and focuses on Dorian, the spark of energy he exudes. It’s written in every line of his body that he wants to be moving. Cullen would send him off on his own, since he’s certain he’s holding him back, but he’s noticed no less than five other men giving Dorian the kind of look in passing that Cullen has, so far, only dreamed of giving him.  

It’s getting steadily louder. Dorian looks up, perking suddenly as the song changes. He swallows the last of his drink and gestures for Cullen to follow suit, so he does. Fingers tangle in his and with a tug Dorian tows him down to the floor.

This is crazy. That’s all he can think as they sidestep and wriggle their way to a spot somewhere in the center. It’s deafening, and it’s crowded. They’re at sea in a mass of shifting bodies of all shapes, sizes, heights, a whole spectrum of genders surging in time with the music. Cullen’s hardly got a shred of rhythm to his name, but Dorian pulls him in by the hips and he’s moving like it’s the answer to all life’s problems. Cullen sways a few times, keeps up, then loses it. Finds it again when Dorian holds his hips to guide him.

He’s not drunk enough not to feel self-conscious, but Dorian is determined to carry on. Instead of quitting in frustration he inches closer, arm slung across Cullen’s shoulders, twisting his pelvis side to side. It’s lighthearted but it becomes rapidly apparent that he’s got killer rhythm and he does not miss a single beat. It seems to come as naturally to him as breathing: when to slow, when to pop, when to throw more energy behind a swing of his hips. Cullen does his level best to at least shuffle his shoulders to the beat.

Dorian, for his part, seems to be having a good time regardless, so Cullen concentrates on being where he’s wanted and not getting in the way. He can think of worse sins—at least like this he isn’t stepping on Dorian’s feet.

The next song slows down, and the lights lower. Fewer frantic colour changes. Dorian presses in tight, arms looping around Cullen’s neck as he sways. Bass vibrates through the floor, through the walls, buzzing between them, in Cullen’s chest. He closes his eyes and forgets, tries to forget what that means. Forgets everything except the sweat and breath of the man in his arms, the sheen of lights flashing over his brown skin. How his lips keep dragging on the soft spots under Cullen’s jaw.

Every song seems slower, crunchier, and it’s playing right into Dorian’s hands. He’s not too trim, has a few slight curves, but the softness is deceptive. Underneath, he’s a bundle of muscle, solid and sinuous, flexible in ways Cullen never knew mattered; subtle twists and flicks that press them so close Cullen wonders if they might be flouting some kind of indecency law. The close contact, all that heat and sweat, feels incredible, indecent or not.

The bassline thuds heavier on a drop, and Dorian turns around in Cullen’s arms, faces away from him, hips and torso working smoothly in an obscene rhythm. His abdominals shift and flex under Cullen’s palms, tight below that layer of softness. It’s the closest Cullen’s come to sex in years. At this rate, he doubts he’s going to make it off the dance floor without embarrassing himself. He can’t begin to think what it means for the cab ride home. Dorian reaches backward, tangles fingers in the hair on Cullen’s nape as he grinds slowly, rhythmically into him, ass pressed hard against his dick. Cullen is fully erect in his jeans, gasping into the light sweat on Dorian’s neck, cock so stiff that he knows Dorian feels it through the denim, knows he’s grinding with intent. Although Cullen is barely dancing, hardly even moving, he’s out of breath and panting. Dorian turns back around and leans against him, still twisting his hips with the bassline.

His lips are an inch away from Cullen’s; less. Instead of kissing him, he presses them to Cullen’s throat and sucks hard, follows it with a nip.

Cullen can’t hear the lyrics, but he doesn’t need to. The way Dorian is writhing, the up and down slither, says it all. The music hits a crescendo and Dorian’s hands drag up Cullen’s body into his hair. He’s half-lidded, lost in it, moving after the beat because it feels good. The effect it’s having on Cullen seems like a secondary consideration.  

He keeps chasing for a kiss but Dorian is always just out of reach. The song ends, transitioning into something faster, and Dorian presses his mouth to Cullen’s ear.

“Want to get out of here?”

It takes all the wits left to him just to nod.

Things happen in strange slides of time. They’re outside; they’re in a cab. Dorian is sucking on his neck and Cullen is using every shred of his self-control not to wrestle him; either to hold him off or to haul him into full on necking. It’s only a handful of blocks and when they pull up to the curb Cullen hands the driver a bill before Dorian has his wallet out. The guy deserves a good tip for tolerating that display in his backseat.

They stumble to the door. Dorian drops his keys. Cullen prays quietly for the patience and endurance to make it to his apartment.

Once inside, Dorian grabs his hand and leads him onward at a trot.

This is it: he’s going up.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations in bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Slightly awkward sexual content. Further Dorian/Bull discussion.

They stagger upstairs in tandem, Cullen coping admirably with the trip considering he’s been stiff in his jeans on and off for the past twenty-odd minutes. Dorian’s fault, entirely, and by design of course. He’s not as young as he used to be but there are occasions when he still can’t help himself.

It’s past Titania’s bedtime, so when they come careening through the door she doesn’t bother with a greeting beyond a thud of her tail on the couch cushion.

The second the door is shut behind them, Cullen is a force of nature: kissing Dorian, gripping him, hands in his hair and on his ribs, groping down to his ass. He’s at a fever pitch, so Dorian backs him eagerly toward the bedroom. On the way they somehow manage to toe out of their shoes, nearly tripping in the process, both of them laughing like schoolboys while they cling to one another for balance.

A clunk when Cullen’s calves hit the bed frame, then scrambling as they both fall onto the unmade sheets. Dorian recovers first and straddles Cullen’s lap, palms weighing on either side of his hips.  

Blunt fingers slip under Dorian’s loose tank and Cullen pulls, sliding it off. His hands push through the hair on Dorian’s stomach and chest, roughly, before settling above his thighs. Dorian lowers his upper body, staying just high enough that he provides no friction at all as he nuzzles in a sideburn.

A small, frustrated noise from Cullen as he rocks his hips up, manages to press himself against Dorian’s fly for a brief moment before Dorian shoves him back down.

“Ah ah.” He pins Cullen’s pelvis to the bed, feels the shudder of contained strength underneath him. “I told you I’d get you for that little stunt the other day,” Dorian says. “I’m a man of my word.”

Cullen growls something unintelligible, a rumble low in his chest. His chest which is still under that peach colored v-neck, sweatier now from their endeavors on the dance floor. Dorian sits up again and starts rolling it off, letting Cullen take hold of it to finish the job, which he does with enthusiasm.

Bared to the waist, he’s every bit as thick and fuzzy as Dorian hoped he’d be. Not even minimally defined, but strong as hell and meaty in the right places.

Dorian brushes fingers along the fly of Cullen’s jeans, working the button loose. He undoes it, but that’s all. Then he palms his length through the denim and squeezes.  

“Oh, god,” Cullen moans, letting his head roll back. “Dorian, please...”

“Upset with me, hm?” His big hands are curled rough around the backs of Dorian’s thighs and in answer he grips him harder. “If you think you hate me now just wait until I tell you I need to run the dog outside.”

Cullen gives him the most incredulous, heartbroken look he’s seen in weeks, and Dorian immediately bursts out laughing.

“Kidding! I’m kidding,” he assures him, kissing along his jaw, the bristles under his throat, to the soft skin in the divot of his collarbone. “She can wait.”

“Good, because I—sst,” Cullen sucks air through his teeth when Dorian scrapes a thumbnail across one of his nipples, “—can’t.”

He means it. He’s wound so tightly his muscles are jittering.

Dorian unzips his fly the rest of the way and moves it aside.

First he covers his dick, feels the heft of it twitch under his palm. He works up and down over top of the fabric—plain gray jersey knit—a few times and Cullen bumps forward into the motion. He’s panting, hands clasping at the waist of Dorian’s jeans trying to unbutton them. The effort is concentrated but fumbling and Dorian eases off.

“Here,” he hushes. Once he’s sure Cullen is watching, he grips the top corner of the fabric of the fly and pinches it, popping the button. The rest of the buttons go easy.

“Too many,” Cullen grumbles, fingers tugging and then sliding under the fabric to brush Dorian’s cock.

Dorian closes his eyes and tilts into the touch with a hum. He’s been hard since midway through the cab ride and halfway there a couple times before that. Nonetheless, he has priorities.

He reaches to slip his hand past the band of Cullen’s briefs, but there’s a flinch, then a gentle hold around his wrist. Cullen shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” he huffs. “I can’t, it’s...”

Dorian moves his palm back into place over Cullen’s hard length. “Shh, shh...” He gives him another slow squeeze, and Cullen’s fingers spasm against the small of his back. “No need to be sorry. Should I stop, or is this alright?”

Twitching fingers and a curt nod.

“Yes it’s all right?” Dorian double-checks

A grunt and a second nod.

Dorian kisses the stubble underneath Cullen’s jaw and feels him swallow, feels the tension rising in him. His dick is so hard that either he’s in love or it’s been a long time since he’s been touched, and Dorian would never bet on the former. The latter... The latter he understands.

Another bob of Cullen’s throat. Dorian curves his fingers under his balls and it makes Cullen writhe; he exhales a soft rush of air. Dorian feels like a teenager: partially clothed and fondling in the dark, practically tipsy from all the oxytocin rushing around his foolish brain. They aren’t even drunk. This is disgraceful.

He adores every stupid second of it.

Cullen is desperate, thighs clenched, toes curling, eyebrows knit on his forehead under a lock of tousled hair.

God, he’s fucking beautiful. “You’re beautiful,” Dorian whispers next to his mouth. He thumbs the wet spot at Cullen’s tip, his underwear soaked through with pre-come, which nets him another shaky sigh. As tough as it is to be told it’s too much to move underneath the cotton, it’s far from disappointing. He feels out the shape of the head, ascertains that Cullen is uncut. He writhes again, nudges Dorian into a kiss. Hisses another sharp breath when Dorian works him between his hand and a hip. He’s grappling to stay as close as he can, to keep kissing him as he ruts into his palm.

His cues are all in his movements, in his breath. Dorian waits for a moan, or a whimpered phrase warning him he’s close. Nothing, save a rhythmic uptick to the ins and outs of his chest. When it happens, it happens fast. Cullen’s stomach cinches tight and a gasp catches in his throat. Another, and he’s coming, bucking hard, twice. His grip on Dorian intensifies instead of faltering, then he eases into a slow, lazy cant of his hips, working himself through the orgasm. It takes quite a long time.

“Good thing you bought that underwear,” Dorian teases, nosing his temple.

Cullen coughs a tiny laugh, still catching his breath. All the tension has gone from his face and he looks gentle, sleepy. Vulnerable, almost. His eyelashes are short and pale, but up close he has a lot of them.  

“Look at you, all rosy cheeked...” Dorian works the fingers of his free hand through Cullen’s bangs, traces his thumb over a dark eyebrow. Still, the man doesn’t make a sound. He’s smiling, eyes closed and utterly blissed out, but he’s silent as the stars. “Was this a stealth mission?” Dorian murmurs against Cullen’s jaw. “Are you always so quiet?”

No answer, save that soft chuckle. He keeps smiling and turns his face into Dorian’s throat. Pink heat flushes his skin; along his cheeks, over his brow.

Dorian huffs a plaintive noise and rolls his hips, pressing his cock against Cullen’s thigh. He’s been tenting his own briefs all this time, getting by on happenstance friction. Not that he’s upset about it. On the contrary, it’s a welcome prolonging of the inevitable. And it is inevitable.

“What about you?” Cullen finally croaks.

“Don’t you worry about me.” Dorian shifts his leg and readies to settle in against Cullen’s side to thrust himself out.

The creases are back in Cullen’s brow. “Here, I...” He shifts sideways, turns over, then rolls Dorian forcefully onto his back. His lips go straight for a nipple and Dorian groans. Cullen’s mouth goes on to connect lower on his chest, his belly, below his navel, the tip of that pointed pink nose tickling in the hair there. He pauses to tug at Dorian’s jeans, yanking them to his knees before he buries his face next to the bulge in his underwear, kissing the divot where pelvis meets thigh before mouthing his balls through the fabric.

“Jesus,” Dorian mutters. He levers onto his elbows to watch, rapt.

Cullen curls his fingers into the elastic of the underwear, tugs it down until Dorian’s cock pushes free. He nuzzles in, tongues the side of the base, traces along the length a ways before gripping him in a fist.

He falters suddenly. Pauses. “Do you have, um...” He can’t seem to say the word, but he’s right. They should be careful.

“In the drawer,” Dorian indicates the bedside table. “You’ll want the ones on the left.”

“I...there’s more than one kind?”

“The ones on the left are better for what you intend to do, trust me.”

Cullen follows the order and emerges with a packet.

“I’m sorry, I’d... I know it’s stupid but—

Dorian reaches up to cup his cheek. “We could both lie and say we know we’re safe, or we could stop, get tested and wait two weeks, or we could take precautions. I prefer the precautions.”

And not only because Felix understandably gives him hell whenever he finds out he’s been anything less than ironclad with someone new, either.

“Okay,” Cullen says. He visibly relaxes, though his relief is no help to him as far as the condom wrapper is concerned.

Darling as Dorian finds the fumbling, he’s aching hard, and he doesn’t want him to get self-conscious. He sits up. “Here.” Cullen seems relieved to surrender the task, leaning his forehead lightly against Dorian’s neck while he waits. Dorian reaches back into the drawer and uncaps some lube, puts a dab on his tip before he rolls the condom on. “Feels nicer,” he explains.

He lies back down and Cullen wastes no time at all getting into it.

It’s not expert, but it’s eager. The kind of devotion to the task that leaves Dorian biting his lip and fighting not to thrust into Cullen’s mouth. He judges that doing so would probably be bad, and under no circumstances does he want this experience to be negative. There’s no knowing for sure without asking if it’s Cullen’s first, maybe second, time giving head, and he might be wildly wrong in this assumption, but Dorian has his suspicions. Nothing to do with skill, everything to do with nerves.

The eagerness does a good job making up anything lacking on either front. Cullen grips him at the root, drags his tongue up the vein on the underside before taking the tip into his mouth. He falters once or twice, isn’t always sure what to do with his teeth, but it’s earnest and he seems to be enjoying it, his mane of blond hair askew around his face as he works. Dorian fights the temptation, but his fingers reach out and tighten in that mess of curls, careful to stay loose enough to leave him plenty of freedom to move. Cullen breathes in and takes him deep, only for a moment, but the pressure is just so and he looks fucking beautiful and Dorian gasps, tenses.

He comes with a yelp, lets everything pent up vibrate in his chest and throat. He cries out until the cries fade into moans. Cullen brushes his stubbled cheek against the inside of Dorian’s thigh, nibbles him softly in the same spot. When he stops moaning, Cullen eases up his chest, settles half on top of him with his nose buried in his hair.

For a few minutes they simply lie there, dozing. It’s pleasurable, the weight of him, their shared musk, but with the state they’re in they can’t stay that way long. Too sticky.

Dorian tugs free of the condom and tosses it in the trash. “Mm.” With a sigh he wriggles out from under Cullen, who sidles away to let him free. “I really do have to take the dog out,” he says softly.

Cullen burrows into a pillow, smiling.

“Bathroom’s on your right,” Dorian points to the closed door. “Those,” he indicates Cullen’s jeans by patting his ass. “Off. Make yourself at home. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He steps out of his jeans and pulls on his late night and early morning dog duty uniform: sweats, flip-flops, a light cotton hoodie. Dressed, he drags reluctant Titania downstairs where she looks at him as though he’s wronged her deeply before emptying her bladder on the usual patch of grass. This way she’s likely to sleep in.

Inside, he strips again and washes up. Titania is standing at the bedroom door, looking uncertain.

“Do you mind if she comes in?” he asks the Cullen-shaped lump under the sheet.

“Not at all,” it answers.

A quick gesture lets her know she’s invited, so she climbs aboard and claims her usual corner at the foot of the bed.

Under the covers, Cullen immediately curls around Dorian, mercifully naked, skin still cool where he’s splashed himself with water. They’re both a bit sweaty, but it’s comfortable. Dorian runs his knuckles across the extensive fluff covering Cullen’s belly below the navel. Relaxed, lying on his side, he’s extra soft in that particular spot and it’s more endearing than it has any right to be.

Eventually he squirms. “Tickles,” he says through a grin.

“Sorry.” Dorian settles for snuggling up to him. “I like that bit, is all.”

He listens to the traffic outside for a time, and Cullen’s heartbeat. The quiet gurgles of everything below the skin.  

“Oh,” Cullen murmurs, more asleep than awake. “If I yell in my sleep just...give me a shove.”

“You yell in your sleep?”

He swallows, adjusts his head on the pillow. “Used to.”

Minutes later, he’s out cold, huffing slow, leisurely breaths into Dorian’s hair. Not long after, Dorian follows suit.

Muzzy morning light creeps in under the curtains, needling him from dim awareness into waking. Dorian feels even breathing on his shoulder. Composed, too quick to be sleeping. He yawns, whines a little in the middle of it before stretching out his thighs and calves. Behind him Cullen nuzzles into his nape.

“Tell me you haven’t been lying awake for hours,” Dorian says.

An arm coils around his stomach and Cullen kisses the base of his skull. “Only a little while.”  

Neither one of them makes any strides toward leaving the comfort of their nest.

Cullen plays lazily with Titania, who keeps nosing his hands and nibbling him, her long tail a back and forth swish across the sheets. For his part, Cullen is utterly immersed in the game—he’s grinning and teasing her like a big puppy himself, tickling the hairs between her toes and mussing her ears when she makes gentle, open-mouthed grabs at him. Dorian is almost loathe to interrupt.

“I’d better give her some breakfast,” he says. He slides from the bed and reaches for the pair of sweats, tugs them over his nakedness before throwing on a t-shirt. He grabs his ipad and kneels down on the mattress, leaning to kiss Cullen on the temple. “Here,” he hands him the tablet. “If you want to see her puppy pictures.”

In a leap, Titania is clear of the bed and trotting towards the door, ready to devour whatever’s put in front of her.

Cullen chuckles and flips the ipad’s case open as Dorian leaves the room.

The dog is all business in the morning once Dorian is upright. As soon as he’s standing she expects a timely meal, with immediate trip outside to follow. Dorian is quietly thankful her innards seem to work on a reliable schedule as he readies his biodegradable baggy, picks up after her, trashes it, and they head back upstairs where he sets her loose before thoroughly washing his hands. He pads back into the bedroom to find Cullen exactly where he left him: reclined, smiling at puppy pictures.

“She looked like a wet noodle,” he says, turning the screen so Dorian can see what he’s referring to.

“Ha. She did.” He settles on the edge of the mattress so he can watch Cullen’s face. “Her awkward phase went on for many months.” As if she knows she’s being talked about, Titania jogs back into the bedroom and hops onto the end of the bed, completing one full turn before lying down like a big white pretzel.

“Very cute, though.” Cullen peruses slide after slide, face varying between happy softness and full grin. Then his brows twitch. In a moment, his expression abruptly shifts to...something else.

Cold panic shoots down Dorian’s spine. “What is it?” He thought he’d cleared everything off that tablet ages ago, minus the dog and a few location shoots of his designs, to make it safe for public consumption. He extends forward and reaches out to take it.

Cullen surrenders, no resistance.

“Oh.” Dorian puffs out a relieved breath. It’s a picture of an office party several years back. Unflattering, but not as unflattering as your brand new lover stumbling across accidental pornography or some other incriminating bit of filth. Those he keeps relegated to his personal laptop, which not a soul is permitted access to save for him.

“Those your workmates?” Cullen asks him.

“Ahh, yes. All except one.” And there’s the truth: the only potentially unfortunate element of the photograph is that Bull—all six foot six, two-hundred and eighty tattooed pounds of him—is in it, and he’s got a massive meaty arm slung about Dorian’s waist. His waist which was a little thicker at the time, he remembers as heat creeps into his cheeks. “God, I went through an especially chubby phase in my mid-twenties,” he says. He pauses. “Actually I went through a few phases in my mid-twenties...”

“Wait, really?” Cullen leans forward to look at the photo again. “Huh. I’d only noticed your hair was shorter. Who’s the big guy?” he taps on Bull, and the photo zooms in.

Dorian sighs. “That,” he says, “is Bull.”

“You work with someone named Bull?” Cullen asks, the roguish cant coming into his smile.

“No, that’s the except one. Not a co-worker,” Dorian says. “Ex-boyfriend.” He chews his bottom lip.

Cullen’s eyes widen. He turns his focus back to the image. “Oh,” he says. He sits further up in bed. “He’s, uh...” There’s a silence.

“Don’t be fooled, he looks tough but he’s more of a teddy bear.”

“Ah, no, I just... I was going to say he’s very handsome,” Cullen finishes. His smile looks lopsided, but it’s lacking the humor it had moments ago. “ _Very_ handsome.”

Dorian sets the ipad aside and crawls up the bed. “Is that...intimidation I detect?” he asks, settling himself so he can kneel over Cullen’s lap. His answer is a soft breath, a turn of the head to the side. “You’re not so bad yourself, you know,” he hushes into a tendon, then presses his lips there.  

“I’m plain,” Cullen insists in a quiet voice.

“If by plain you mean wholesome Disney prince good looks, then I’ll allow it.”

A full-body snort from Cullen. “Maybe ten years ago,” he mutters.

“Ten years ago you must’ve been a wee babe,” Dorian says. “Little more than a pup yourself.”

This sets Cullen laughing, and his hands climb Dorian’s back. “You don’t know how old I am,” he replies, nosing Dorian’s chin.

“I’d guess, but that inevitably ends in insults and tears. We can’t be all that far apart...”

“How old are you?” Cullen asks.

Dorian huffs, indignant, sets a hand on his chest. “As if you expect me to own to it.” He wraps both arms about Cullen’s shoulders and bumps their foreheads together. “I’m very recently thirty-three, if you must know.”

Those soft brown eyes blink, then widen. “Oh.” Cullen’s palms settle over his hips. “I’d thought you younger,” he says.

“Shit, I could’ve lied.”

They laugh, and Cullen squeezes him and pulls him sideways. They tussle until the dog joins in with a bark, and soon after in her enthusiasm manages to partway step on Dorian’s delicate bits, which he’s rather used to since she’s been making a hobby of it for two years now, but pain being familiar never makes it any easier. With a half-laugh, mostly whimper, he curls into Cullen’s chest.  

“Ow.”

“Poor baby,” Cullen mutters against the side of his head, still snickering at the whole performance.

They both watch the dog resettle at the foot of the bed.

“So how old are you, anyway?” Dorian asks.

Cullen lets out a sigh. “Thirty-two,” he says, then nods.

“A whole year younger than me!” Dorian clicks his tongue. “That won’t do. You’re thirty-three now, happy birthday.”

Another snort from Cullen. His perpetual three day beard is onto its fourth day by Dorian’s estimate, and it looks far more fetching than it should. “Not until January.”

“Capricorn, hm? Mine was just last week, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

There’s a slight pull in Cullen’s brows. “It was your birthday? I’ve missed it...”

Dorian waves him off. “Once you’re our age there’s not much to celebrate. I’d rather nobody knew. I spent the night watching netflix with the dog.”

“I’ll get you something,” Cullen insists. “August. What does that make you, a Leo?”

“Yes, the illustrious month of the lion. Suits me, doesn’t it?”

“You’re reasonably leonine.”

“I suppose you’ve more of a mane,” Dorian says, reaching up to ruffle Cullen’s hair.

Cullen smiles, but it lasts only a moment before he goes very still. A strange seriousness seems to start in the eyes and overtake his face one line at a time. He looks away for a moment, swallows, scratches an itch in his beard.

The strangeness passes. “Was it a bad breakup? With Bull?” Cullen asks, hand smoothing down Dorian’s back.

Dorian sighs. “It wasn’t bad in the usual sense. We mutually agreed it was for the best, but...” He sets his head on Cullen’s shoulder. “We broke each other’s hearts a little bit.” Dorian loved Bull, long after it ended. On certain days, he finds he loves him still.

“Irreconcilable differences?” Cullen whispers.

“You might say that.”

In a while, they get up. They dress. Dorian makes coffee: lattes in big white mugs, which they take out onto the balcony. He offers to make breakfast, but Cullen declines, insists he should be going.

There’s a sudden distance in his demeanor that Dorian can’t place. He’s still smiling, leans happily for a kiss before he leaves, even turns around to steal a second one before he steps out the door, arms full of all his shopping bags like a prop boyfriend from a bad romantic comedy, but there’s a lingering sadness in the gesture.

Talking about Bull might’ve been a mistake. It’s easy to forget that whatever’s between them, whatever he and Cullen feel for one another, it’s still new. Fragile. A single green filament poking through the earth.  

Dorian hopes like hell he hasn’t killed it by pouring out too much of the past too soon.

With Cullen gone, he crawls back into his indent on the bed. Titania makes a mournful noise at the disturbance and he pats her rib cage with his foot. “I’m sorry, am I interrupting your post-breakfast nap?” She’ll want a walk later, but if he suggested it now she’d only half-heartedly thump her tail in the covers and look at him as if to say, “Why do you do this to me?”

He picks up the discarded tablet and opens the photo again. He hasn’t thought of Bull in any real depth, beyond how to best avoid him in social situations, for some time. Their relationship was a testing ground for Dorian’s budding desire to maintain a long-term liaison, and in the bedroom there could be no mistake: the chemistry was there. Bull’s roommates, the whole lot of them in their run down house over off Main Street, had grinned and made jokes about earplugs whenever Dorian arrived for the night.

Things that seemed too good to be true always were, though. Bull told him early on that he was polyamorous and to his credit, he was consistently honest about that. At first, Dorian thought himself open-minded for being willing to go along with it, but as things got more serious it slowly ate away at him until he broke.

He remembers screaming, _Why isn’t it enough? Why aren’t I ever enough?_

As if it were Bull’s fault, somehow. You don’t scream at the sun for being hot. You get out of it and stand in the shade. A hard lesson for someone like Dorian, who’d grown up thinking he could move the sun if he only put his mind to it.

You couldn’t expect other people to change to suit you, just like it wasn’t fair of them to expect it of you, either.

He sighs and flips back to the puppy pictures. “You really were a hellion, you know,” he says to Titania.

It’s still early, and he remembers his promise to Felix that they’d meet today, so he texts him. Best to save worrying about Cullen for later, when he can be sure there’s something to worry about.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going downhill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Heads up, emetophobes: it’s not graphic, but it happens. Chemo is a thing in this chapter as well, so nausea is mentioned more than once.

There’s only so much worrying a person can do before it wears every nerve to a stub. That’s about how he feels when he arrives for his first chemo appointment: raw as a torn blister. First, they do blood work. The blood work is endless, these days. Afterward, a nurse leads him to a room full of cozy chairs and a few other subdued looking patients. They have a discussion in which he confirms that he’s declined a port for now, and she sticks him and rearranges his IV so it’s out of the way. Then, he sits.

He sits for a long, long time. He dissociates; only realizes a nurse is checking in with him on their third attempt saying his name. When it comes to unpleasant drawn out circumstances, he tries to initiate a form of mental stasis. It’s gotten him through transatlantic flights, prolonged dental appointments, through nights waiting in a military hospital, wondering when he’d be discharged. No reason to think it won’t get him through this, too. If he gets through this.

The thought makes him close his eyes.  

When he’s done, he doesn’t feel too bad. Tired, and peculiar, a bit loopy but it’s tolerable. His doctor told him that some people found they had a grace period of an hour or two following treatment, sometimes longer, and he’s hoping he’s one of them since he’s still got to get himself back home. He’s also been given additional prescriptions for anxiety and nausea, so he drops by the adjacent pharmacy to see if he can get them filled before he leaves town for the night.

On the way back to his car he starts feeling off. Sick. Too hot, worse than the sweaty late summer heat could do on its own. A few gulps of water provide no relief, and neither does the AC when he powers the engine on. He powers it off again.

Ten minutes with the windows down and his eyes closed does nothing to help either. He grips the steering wheel and chews his lip.

He reaches for his phone, and texts Dorian. _Can I ask a favor?_

Close to two weeks have gone by since he spent the night, and they’ve met up a handful of times. They saw one another most recently on Tuesday, at meditation, but Cullen got the sense that Dorian was overtired so he left after their meal instead of following him home. There have been a few brief text exchanges since, but both of them are behaving strangely.

At least, Cullen is inadvertently behaving strangely, and that’s probably making Dorian strange, too. They’ve reached a stage where it might be time to talk about what’s between them, but for whatever unfathomable reason they’re avoiding it. Either way, it leaves him unsure of where he stands.

No answer to the latest text. He’s an intermittent replier, is Dorian. Not on purpose, according to him, but he gets engrossed in what he’s doing and leaves his phone unattended for an hour here and there. Cullen realizes he’s forgotten it’s not the weekend. It’s after five but not by much, so maybe Dorian is in transit between work and home. Except that he’s told Cullen he often goes in early on Fridays, so he can leave by four.

He’s out of it. Sluggish. Shouldn’t be behind the wheel of a car at all, let alone the two hours it’s going to take to make it back to the valley.

Cullen decides to call him. It rings three times, five, then picks up.

“Hello, you.”

The sound of Dorian’s voice is a relief.

“Hey, I’m...sorry to call, I know it’s... I know you prefer texts.”

“It’s not a worry. I’m surprised to hear from you is all. Are you still in town?”

“Yes, I... I had an appointment. Just got done. I hate to do this, but, uh...” He presses fingers to his temples. “I’m not feeling very well and I wondered if you’d be amenable to me lying on your sofa for an hour or so? If that’s not... If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Oh? Sure.” No hesitation, no waffling. A good sign. “It’s no trouble at all. Please, come by. Titania and I were out and about but we’re here now.”

They say an abbreviated goodbye, and Cullen steels himself for the trip across town. Thankfully, the green lights are on his side and traffic is flowing well. Small cosmic mercy. He parks, texts that he’s arrived, and Dorian comes down to let him in.

“Can I touch you or are you contagious?” he teases, arms extended to give Cullen a quick, careful hug.

“I think you’re safe,” Cullen replies softly.

Upstairs, Titania greets him like a long lost friend. He ruffles her ears and something in the gesture makes him feel like crying. Muscle memory, maybe.

“Sometimes I think she likes you better than she does me,” Dorian confesses. There’s a hint of a pout in it.

Cullen braces himself on the edge of the kitchen island and tries to smile. “I’m afraid I’m... I’m a bit shaky,” he says. Or a lot shaky, he realizes.

Dorian’s gray eyes widen, but it softens his expression instead of sharpening it. “It’s quite all right.” He offers an arm and leads Cullen to the sofa, where he helps him settle into a spot. “Do you need some water?”

“Yes, please. I’m sorry to do this, I just—

“Shush, no more apologies. If you’re unwell, you’re unwell, it’s not your fault.” Dorian disappears into the kitchen and returns with a tall, cold glass filled to the brim.

It helps, a little. He’s thirsty, but he knows too much will make his stomach worse. He tries to take small sips and draw each one out, experience it fully to trick himself into thinking it’s more than it is.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Dorian says. “Is it a touch of flu?” He gently presses his hand to Cullen’s forehead. “You don’t feel especially warm, but you look a little peaked.”

The hand on his forehead feels odd, but it comforts him. “I’ll be all right,” he says. He leans back into the cushions, finds himself nestling lower to rest his head on the padded arm. It’s nice to lie down, though in doing so he understands, bodily, how tired he is. His eyes slowly float closed, then bounce open only to float shut again.

Cullen snaps awake to the sound of soft instrumental music. There are three orchids on the windowsill across the room, glowing in the last of the evening’s golden light. It takes him a few moments to recall where he is. In the kitchen Dorian moves back and forth, rustling plastic. Utensils click and there’s a sigh below Cullen’s head. He peers over the side of the couch to see Titania, her long scraggly body stretched out on the rug parallel to his own. She thumps her tail once when she realizes he’s moved, and he drops his hand to give her a pat on the ribs.

“He lives,” Dorian says as he exits the kitchen. He has a mug in either hand. “I don’t know how you feel about miso soup, but when I’m ill some salt always hits the spot. What do you think?” Steam rises over the rim of the offered mug, and Cullen eases himself into a sit.

“Sounds good. Thank you.”

They sip in silence. It tastes pleasant, and Cullen’s stomach stays unclenched.

“There’s plain rice as well, if you’d like something solid.”

“Mm,” he winces. “Probably best not to test my luck.”

Another half hour drifts past and for a time he thinks he’s rallying, but then the tired, too-hot feeling surfaces again. He realizes he’s forgotten to take his prescriptions, and he’s left the bulk of them in the car. There are a couple of tabs in his pocket—sample drugs, to take if the prescribed ones didn’t help. He excuses himself to the washroom and swallows one down, hoping it’ll do...something. He rubs at his eyes and notes that his cheeks are fever pink. When he comes back out, Dorian is standing in the kitchen.

“I think you’d better stay here tonight,” he says. He looks more serious than Cullen’s ever seen him.

“I don’t want to be any trouble.”

Dorian frowns at him. “Trouble. Listen to you. Yes, you’ve inconvenienced me terribly with your quiet, polite company.” His fingers come up to cover Cullen’s forehead again. “How ever will I endure?”

“It’s just—

“Please.” Dorian gently cups the back of Cullen’s neck, holding his gaze. “I’m glad to have you. Shall we watch a movie?”

They end up watching two before Dorian makes an executive decision that he’s putting Cullen to bed. He shuffles him to his feet and leads him into the bedroom with instructions to strip, so Cullen pulls off his jeans and slips out of his short sleeved button down.

“Pink undies and a Captain America shirt, hm? This is your Friday attire?”

Cullen had forgotten what he had on underneath his top layers. “Oh...” The underwear is pink because he washed it with a brand new red henley, of course, and he wasn’t about to throw away perfectly good underwear just for being pink. The Captain America shirt he has no explanation for other than he happens to like Captain America. “I suppose it is.”

Dorian chuckles, indicates that he’s taking the dog out one last time. He tells Cullen that there’s a new toothbrush under the sink if he wants it, or to help himself to the mouthwash. He opts for the toothbrush, memorizes the packaging so he can buy a replacement the next time he’s at the pharmacy.

The bedroom looks different than it did the last time he was in it, though he can’t place why. Memory is an iffy thing—it deconstructs, reconstructs at will, sometimes just enough to give the impression that you’ve stumbled into another version of the place you meant to be in. He stands at the foot of the bed, teeth freshly brushed, in sock feet, uncertain of whether or not he should wait for Dorian. He doesn’t know which side he prefers, though he supposes he can guess since there’s a stack of books and a glass of water on the right and nothing on the left.

It’s hot in the room. He hesitates, rubs the back of his neck, wonders if he should take his socks off. Deciding not to, he climbs into the bed and settles on his side with his knees and arms tucked up.

The sheets are cooler than the ambient air, and they smell like Dorian. Not Dorian’s cologne, but Dorian: his sweat and skin, the musk of him. Cullen doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but he does.

He wakes in the dark, too hot and reeling with a lethal duet of hunger and nausea. When the dog sits up in alarm at his shifting, he remembers where he is. He has just enough sense to stagger to his feet and into the bathroom, where he retches a whole lot of nothing into the toilet bowl. For all his heaving, there’s not a single thing in him to bring up save a bit of bile.

This wasn’t supposed to happen, he thinks to himself. Everyone says this is what happens in the movies, but not in real life.

There’s a click-clack of nails on linoleum, and Titania snuffs his ear. He pets her to reassure her and she leans on him like a child seeking a hug. A few moments later, Dorian is kneeling behind him, one hand on his back.

“I’m all right,” Cullen grumbles. “I’ll be all right.”

“Should I leave you to it?” Dorian asks. There’s gravel in his voice.

Cullen nods, and Dorian goes.

Time slips as he sits in the bathroom, head resting against the cool glass of the shower door. Dorian appears beside him every so often, offering water, juice, saltines, an ice pack wrapped in a tea towel. Small comforts—kind things. The water and the ice pack, Cullen accepts. Something cold on the back of his neck seems to soothe him, and on Dorian’s next reappearance he sits and holds it there for him awhile.

At one point Titania joins them. She licks Cullen’s cheek and then his hands before Dorian gently thanks her and she leaves again.

The nausea passes eventually, and he slinks back to the bedroom where he finds Dorian awake with a book.

“Any better?” Dorian asks, peering at him through reading glasses.

“A bit.” The room is cooler now, the day’s heat finally dissipated into darkness. He lowers into bed and Dorian reaches over to run his fingers through his hair. Without thinking, Cullen worms his way closer and huddles into him, half his face mushed into the soft cotton of his tank top. He’s crying before he can stop himself; big, slow, wet tears that pool and drip like rain water on plant leaves.

It takes Dorian a few moments to notice. Either that, or he isn’t sure how to respond.

“I’m sorry,” Cullen croaks. “I never meant to impose.”

“Shh, I won’t hear any of that,” Dorian whispers. He sets his book down and holds him. “I’m always a bit tender when I’m ill, too. Think nothing of it.”

“I really am sorry.” Cullen sniffs back more tears.

“Cullen. We’ve been seeing one another for a few weeks now. I don’t mind. You’re sick, it’s no imposition.” His voice is deeper than usual. He’s tired, but there’s a gentleness in it that makes Cullen’s breathing even out. “Besides,” he adds, “I’d rather you were here than alone.”

A blur of swelling tears blinds him and he slams his eyes shut. Such a sentiment is enough to twist his heart in thirty directions at once. He presses his face further into Dorian’s side and fights to keep his shoulders from heaving with the crying.

If he were to tell him the truth now, Dorian would take back every word. He’d let him stay the night, but he’d never call again.

In that moment, his mistake takes on weight. Breaks free from inertia, begins a fall toward the center where it crashes and sends dread rushing into every limb. He’s been selfish and stupid to keep it a secret and now it’s going to hurt all the more when it ends, and not just him like it would’ve at the start—much worse—it’s going to hurt Dorian. This perfectly sweet, kind man who has been nothing but gentle with him. Cullen has wasted his time.

Dorian seems to sense that he’s crumbling. He wriggles down a couple inches and presses his cheek to Cullen’s forehead. His fingers weave into Cullen’s where he has his hand on his sternum, and he gives it a quick squeeze.

“I know when I’m ill, I’m often haunted,” Dorian whispers. “All the old ghosts I’ve so carefully shut out, they slip in again. I don’t know why that is.”

Ghosts are resilient. They cling, haunt in strange, unpredictable ways. Illness simply thins the veil. Cullen thinks all this, but all he can do is cry. He cries until he sleeps, and in the morning there’s a dog flopped next to his legs and an arm slung over his hips.

Part of him wonders if he can be up and sneak away before Dorian wakes, but Titania already understands that he’s no longer dozing. Her tail has started its slow sweep back and forth and she scoots a foot up the bed to slide her narrow skull under his hand so he’ll pat her. If Cullen gets up, she’ll get up, and her commotion of nails and whined yawns and shaking out her coat will have Dorian right up after them.

It turns out to be futile conjecture: the arm over his hip tenses. Dorian pulls in a deep breath. “How’s our patient this morning?” he asks in a sleepy rumble.

Cullen can’t say. He doesn’t feel like he’s about to expel his guts, which seems positive. The three of them muddle their way out of bed and the humans put on clothes, then it’s to the kitchen where Dorian asks if he can’t make some breakfast. When Cullen refuses, he lists off a litany of options: toast, eggs, cereal, oatmeal, yogurt, a stale croissant he could reheat, pancakes, frozen waffles—

“Oh. I’ll have a waffle. Please.” It’s nonsensical, but he finds the notion appealing.  

Dorian sticks two in the toaster and puts water on to boil for his coffee. A minute later, he’s handing Cullen a waffle. His first tentative nibble seems to go down fine.

The second waffle Dorian jams in his own mouth and takes a bite. “You were awfully out of sorts last night,” he remarks once he finishes chewing. “You really won’t stay awhile?”

“I’d best get home while I’m not feeling too bad.” Cullen takes another nibble of the waffle. So far, so good. “I don’t want to ruin your whole weekend.”

Dorian dismisses it with a wave. “I get to see you, you’re not sick by yourself, and the dog has two of us to harass for attention. I’d call it a win-win.”

As a one off day, maybe. Not months of it. Cullen tries to smile, but it’s too close to exactly what he wants to hear for him to shake it off. When he does tell him, the response isn’t going to be like this.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Dorian asks, rubbing his shoulder.

Cullen nods. “Thank you.”

“Shall we do Tuesday this week? Or do you think you may still be feeling poorly?”

A good question. Cullen winces. “Probably,” he’s forced to admit.

“Well, let me know. No need to decide today.”

They walk down to his car together, pause at the side of it where Dorian gives him a kiss goodbye. “Drink lots of fluids, and finish that waffle,” he orders him. “And if I catch this bug of yours I expect you to stay and nurse me back to health.”

Cullen sighs a soft laugh. “Of course.” If only it was the flu. If only it were that simple. They could lie in bed together under a heap of tissues, mutually miserable, and wait for it to pass before getting on with their lives.

Instead, he’s not sure how much life he’s got left to get on with. On the drive home, he pulls over twice because he’s concerned his stomach is going to force its contents back up his throat at high velocity, but both times nothing happens. He makes it home, doles out his pills, and crawls onto the couch with the television remote in his hand. It’s hot out, but he feels sick-chilled, so he tugs a thin cotton throw over himself.

He has to tell him. This week, he has to tell him what’s going on. Soon enough, the treatment is going to make him sicker. There’s a good chance—basically a guarantee he’ll lose some of his hair. It’s not the sort of thing you can hide, but more importantly it’s unfair to keep it hidden. He realized when he was writing an appointment on his calendar the week before that they’ve been seeing one another for two months. That’s too long to have lied, especially because it’s...

Cullen rolls over on the couch, facing away from the TV. What is it, exactly? They’re four months shy of what any normal person would call serious but there’s...an ember, shared between them. Not love, not yet, but strong, unwavering mutual investment. It feels serious. Or at least like it could get serious, given enough time.  

Maybe that’s simply because Cullen is serious, and he’s projecting his steadfastness in places it doesn’t belong. He closes his eyes and pulls the blanket up over his shoulder. The next time he sees Dorian, he has to tell him.

If it ends, then... Then so it goes. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Yet more drinking. HIV is mentioned and discussed briefly. Not the happiest of chapters, in case anyone is in an especially rough mood already.

It proves to be a difficult week to stay in touch with Cullen. In spite of himself, Dorian worries. He was so sick that night he spent, and he’s been withdrawn ever since. Embarrassed, maybe, because he cried in front of him, though Dorian hopes that isn’t it. He’d wonder more about a man who never shed a tear than about one who let out a whimper or two in the midst of what seemed an exceptionally uncomfortable night.

On Tuesday, Dorian attends meditation by himself. Cullen remains bedridden at home, and refuses Dorian’s offer of a visit.

He’s more disappointed about that rejection than he ought to be. It stings, even when rationally he understands why Cullen might prefer his privacy. Being vomitous and clammy in front of company is hardly something he’d choose for himself, so he does understand. Still, he can’t help but feel like maybe he’s misjudged the state of their courtship. It’s happened before, once or twice, that he assumed someone to be more involved or invested than they truly were.

Only...it hurts to think that might be the case with Cullen.  

Friday morning brings the arrival of another email from Father. Dorian deletes it, but because he’s feeling sorry for himself he retrieves the blasted thing out of the trash and reads it, a few lines at a time.

The woman he was meant to marry has married someone else. It would behoove him to send his congratulations and well wishes.

That much, Dorian can do. He always liked Livia. She deserved better than the alcoholic farce that their arranged union would’ve been, and it looks as though she might’ve gotten it. He’s genuinely happy for her.

However, he remains in shock as he readies for work that, for once, Father has requested something perfectly reasonable. Hell must be having a chilly day.

That night, he goes out with Sera. They drink themselves stupid by eleven o’clock and end up at some dreadful open mic where an extremely earnest, tall young woman with a guitar seems intent on singing directly to Sera in the front row. Dorian recognizes her, remembers she was at the club the last time he went out with Sera as well, and he can’t help but nudge her in the ribs about it.

The singer is crooning about dangerous love, giving Sera a glowing look, when Dorian’s phone buzzes. His drink is dry, so he slips off to the bar for a refresher and to check his messages.

_I’ve missed you this week._ From Cullen. Seconds later, _Would you be willing to visit me tomorrow?_

He blinks. Rereads the message. It doesn’t twist suddenly into a dismissal, doesn’t disappear.

_Will there be wine?_ he texts back.

_Red and white,_ Cullen replies.

_You know how to woo me. What time?_

They agree on afternoon, and Cullen gives him an address, which he immediately opens up in a map. It’ll be a two hour trip due north, but it’s a pleasant enough drive.  

He wonders if it’s gauche to bring an overnight bag, decides he can leave it in the back seat until he knows whether or not he’s expected to stay.   

His fresh drink appears on the bar and he pays for it, then rejoins Sera and her new best friend, who has given the stage over to a pale bespectacled youth in a strange hat. He’s plucking steadfastly away at a mandolin, and although he has some skill his lyrics are cryptic bordering on creepy.

A few more of Sera’s friends appear shortly afterward, and Dorian begins to feel old, so he risks life and limb to muss up her hair and departs. On the bus home it becomes clear he’s had far too much to drink, and he narrowly avoids throwing up in someone’s flower garden a block away from his apartment. It’s under control by the time he makes it upstairs to let Titania out, but he stays awake quite late sobering up. Things spin too much when he tries to go to sleep still drunk.

The ensuing hangover is a nasty one. Late in the morning, he swallows a couple of painkillers and pours himself a glass of coconut water to drink while he makes scrambled eggs. Eggs and two slices of heavily buttered toast later, he feels much better.

Around noon, he packs, collects all the dog’s paraphernalia, loads her into the car, and they head out. The drive is busy but scenic; pleasant enough. Just outside Pemberton they drive across Rutherford creek, and he has to laugh to himself. He makes a note to ask Cullen if that swayed his decision to move to the area. Shortly after that, he spends ten minutes thinking he’s lost, wondering how on earth he managed it, before he realizes he’s halfway along Cullen’s driveway. He pulls up in front of a smallish, newish A-frame style home in the middle of a wooded property, and there’s Cullen waving to him from the porch.

Dorian sets Titania loose and she runs to Cullen, pressing against his legs in greeting.

“You found the place all right?” Cullen asks, opening his arms to pull Dorian into a hug.

“We had a moment, but we made it.” Dorian nuzzles him until he gives up a kiss. “And how are you feeling? Better, I hope?”  

Cullen’s looking more than a little bit haggard, though Dorian is too well bred to ever say as much aloud. It’s not severe, but the usual purple under his eyes is darker, and Dorian has the distinct impression he’s missed a few meals. It must’ve been a nasty bug to keep him down all week.

“I’m...coping. How’ve you been?”

“Busy, I suppose. Drank a little too much last night if I’m honest.”

“No sudden loud noises, then,” Cullen says. He gestures for Dorian to follow him.

Instead of leading them through the house, Cullen takes them around to the back yard, where he’s got a large deck and only a minimal lawn. Titania frisks about like a yearling deer, snuffling this and that as she circles the yard. Mostly the property is trees and mixed understory, minus a cleared space for a vegetable patch and small storage shed.

There’s also a hammock, which inspires Dorian to suck in a breath. “Oh, hello.” He approaches it, touches the support rope. “May I?”

“Go ahead.”

He eases his way into it and lies there staring up into the treetops and the blue sky in between. “Heaven,” he groans. “Tell me it’ll hold both of us?”

“It may do, but that’s a hell of a proposition since I’m not sure we’ll ever get out again. Don’t you want a bite to eat first?” Cullen indicates the patio, where Dorian spies a spread of crackers, cheeses, figs, and meats, alongside two bottles of wine: red and white, as promised.   

“Well, since you’ve twisted my arm.”

Half an hour passes them by, the dog moving back and forth between them begging while they nibble. Dorian opts for a single glass of white, and Cullen opts for what looks to be sparkling water. He really does look tired, and he eats little, but he seems happy, if subdued.

The third time Dorian glances at the hammock, Cullen starts to laugh. “You’re intent on that thing, aren’t you,” he says.

There’s a fall of sun right in the center, idyllic and warm and inviting. “I’m afraid there’s no deterring me.” He stands up and extends a hand to Cullen to tow him along. “Might as well give in now.”

Somehow, they both climb in without killing themselves or each other.

It’s bliss, once they settle. There’s no other way to describe it. Titania spreads herself out on the lawn nearby, happy to snooze her afternoon away while they lie there intertwined, swaying gently in the dappled light.

“So, what possessed you to sling up a hammock? Are you secretly very good at relaxing?”

Cullen is sleepy. It takes him a few moments to stir himself beneath Dorian’s head.

“It’s for camping,” he replies.

Of course. “Should’ve known it had to serve some practical purpose to find its way into your life,” Dorian teases him. “You do a lot of camping?”

“Not lately. I used to, when I was younger.” One of his long, square fingers rubs at an itch on his chest. “I... I was in the Armed Forces right out of high school, so disappearing into the wilds comes fairly naturally to me.”

Dorian lifts his head up to look him in the eye. Those soft, puppy brown eyes, always so sincere. “You were a soldier?”

“I was. For a time.”

There’s something in his tone that suggests pursuing the topic would be uncomfortable. “Decided it didn’t suit you?” Dorian asks, hoping it’s noncommittal enough not to backfire.

Cullen stares off into the trees above them. A raven casts a shadow overhead. “Honorably released,” he says quietly.

Whatever that means. Dorian isn’t familiar with the ins and outs of Armed Forces jargon, and he doesn’t press the matter. If Cullen wants to talk about it, he’ll talk about it. Right now, it’s obvious he’d rather not. It’s a sudden reminder that for all their entanglement, there’s still much they don’t know about one another. They sink back into comfortable silence.

As afternoon drifts toward evening, a distinct autumn coolness permeates the air. Dorian huddles closer to Cullen, threatening to dump them both out of the hammock in the process.

“Cold?”

“...No,” Dorian lies, prompting a chuckle from the warm body he’s pressed against.

“We can go inside, if you like.” Cullen makes no move, either way.

Apparently, the decision rests with Dorian. He tries to ignore the gooseflesh that’s sprung up on his forearms, but there’s no disguising the shiver he feels building. It’s nearly time to feed the dog, and in truth, the wine’s worked its way through him anyhow.

“Fine. I surrender.” He carefully extricates himself from Cullen, and the hammock, helps Cullen out afterward. As they approach the house, Dorian asks, “Did you build this place with your own two hands?” He’s kidding, but if the answer is yes he’ll be unsurprised.

Cullen shakes his head. “The fellow I bought it from did. Originally it was just a woodlot. I think he intended to live here, but he got a job up north somewhere and didn’t want to leave it sitting empty.”

They go in through the back door and Dorian asks where he might find the gent’s room.

“Down the hall, then on your right,” Cullen says, pointing.

Dorian navigates his way to the bathroom, which is clean and full of new fixtures. There’s a window situated perfectly for looking out of while you use the facilities, and why not when you have no neighbours to speak of. Not like the wildlife is going to care one way or the other. In contrast to the new fixtures, the hand towel looks to be about two centuries old, but it’s fluffy enough when he uses it.

His head is still bothering him. He should’ve gone home last night instead of having that last drink, but between the email from Father and his odd, misplaced sense of heartbreak leftover from Tuesday, his decision-making lacked... Well, it lacked, in general. He’s halfway down the hall when he decides to ask a favor.

“I don’t suppose you could spare a couple of Aspirin?”

“There’s Advil in the medicine cabinet,” Cullen calls from the kitchen.

“That’ll do it.”

Dorian ducks back into the bathroom and opens the cupboard, eager to snoop and expecting to find old tubes of toothpaste, a shaving kit, odds and ends such as earplugs, bandages, ointments and potions, though probably not the array of them that litter his bathroom counter at home. What he doesn’t expect is the veritable sea of newish pharmaceutical bottles lining the lowest shelf, each one primly faced forward. He unfocuses so as not to register any of the small print. Best not to read the labels, to at least pretend at some level of decency. He’s curious, and concerned—of course he is—but as an adult, one has to know better. It’s irresponsible, not to mention disrespectful, to indulge such curiosity. Unless...

Cullen would’ve told him, if it’s what he thinks it might be. There’s no way he wouldn’t have told him, because he’s not untrustworthy like that.

Except Dorian only today found out about Cullen’s military history. What else hasn’t he shared? The feeling nags. Last weekend, when he was so sick and upset... Dorian has to wonder.

He plucks the Advil from the shelf above the prescription sea and closes the door before tapping two capsules into his hand.

In the kitchen, Cullen leafs through his mail.

“Where might I find a glass?” Dorian asks, indicating the pills in his palm.

“Oh, let me—

“It’s quite alright, just point the way.”

“On your right there, the top one. There’s lots of juice in the fridge if you’d like something other than water.”

He ferrets out a glass—plain, tall, anonymous, comes in sets of six from the drugstore—and turns the tap. “Water’s fine for this, but thank you. I will help myself in a moment.”

The room is austere but not without personality. It’s painted a neutral, warm shade of gray, and the furniture is modern. Stainless steel appliances, all quite new. Several photos cling to the side of the refrigerator, held up with art nouveau poster magnets. Le Chat Noir, that sort of thing. There’s a picture of two women in front of the Eiffel tower, and another of a fellow who looks much like Cullen, only narrower, with a guitar on his knee. “Your family?” Dorian asks over his shoulder.

“Mm? Oh. My sisters and brother, yes.”

“Four of you! How charming. There’s a strong resemblance.” Dorian leans closer to the smiling people in the pictures. All of them have the same rough curls and pointed noses, though one of the sisters has ash brown hair instead of blond.

Cullen laughs. “I’ve been told as much before. Believe it or not none of us look a thing like either of our parents. Except the nose. We’ve our mother to blame for that.”

“Blame? Don’t you mean thank?”

“I suppose it depends on the day.” Cullen clears his throat. “Were you an only child?”

“You’re looking at the one and only Pavus family heir. My parents hated one another—well, hate one another, more accurately, since it’s ongoing—and as I understand it, once I was begotten they were relieved they could stop sleeping together. They’ve come to regret that decision, I suspect. So, that’s me. A single flawed egg in a lone basket.”

“I’m sorry. That sounds...difficult.”

“Ahh,” Dorian waves it away. “Ignore me.” He plucks the photo of Cullen’s sisters from the fridge and examines it closely. They look happy—sisterly, each with an arm over the other’s shoulder. “It’s complicated, is all. In my family, people go along with things for the sake of their parents. At least they did, until the advent of me.” The photograph feels cold in his hand, and he puts it back. “I don’t do that.”

“Bit of a black sheep?”

Dorian smiles, hopes it isn’t the one that telegraphs too much, radiates a crystalline misery that grows from the core which he shatters and buries at the end of every conversation about home. “Of the highest order.”

Undoubtedly, Cullen doesn’t need that sort of negative energy in his life, considering what’s going on in his medicine cabinet.

In truth, it isn’t only the prescriptions that have Dorian worried. There is a square plastic tub of vitamins on the countertop: antioxidant this and that, a preposterous collection of fish oils. Papers at the bottom of the stack of mail that can only be medical pamphlets. And he looks so tired.

It reminds Dorian of Felix’s place shortly after he was diagnosed with HIV, which he finds doesn’t frighten him now the way it would have five years ago. Dorian opens the fridge, selects a container of organic carrot juice and pours himself a glass. In fact, Felix is doing well these days, and with how effective and potent all the new drugs are, what was once a death sentence is far more survivable. Of course there’s still the stigma, but that’s to be expected, given the history and nature of the illness.

He puts the juice container away and takes a gulp. Fresh, and sweet. “Cullen, I’m loathe to bring this up, but I couldn’t help but notice your collection in the medicine cabinet.”

Cullen lifts his head to face him, the dawning of realization on his face a visible, visceral change. A slow breath puffs his cheeks and he closes his eyes. “Right,” he says. “I...” His fingers jump to work at the back of his neck and he swallows. “I’d forgotten. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Oh no, don’t be, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Was it...a recent diagnosis?” Dorian asks softly.

“Um, yes.” Cullen nods. “Yes, just a few weeks ago. I’d been meaning to tell you, I only...”

Thank god they were careful, at least. “Well, I wish you had sooner, but it’s—It’s all right. I’ve a dear friend who’s positive as well.”

Cullen’s dark brows pull together. From crestfallen to confused with one twitch. “Positive...” His eyes widen. “Oh! No, no,” he shakes his head. “I have cancer.”

A breath, almost relief. Then it sinks in. “Ah,” Dorian replies.

After that, neither one of them seems to know what to say. The fridge clicks on and begins humming; the sound makes the silence feel whole and thick as a woollen blanket.  

“I have lung cancer,” Cullen repeats, very quietly. “Treatable, sort of. They... They’re not sure yet. I’ve only had two chemo appointments so they don’t, um...” He shuffles the stack of mail on the bar, pushing it aside so it sits neatly against the corded telephone occupying the countertop nearest the wall. He must be the last person on the continent with a corded telephone. “It’s too soon to say,” he concludes with a small nod, as if to reaffirm the words with himself.

“I’m so sorry.”

He shrugs. “Take it as it comes, right?” He’s smiling, but there’s so much pain in his eyes that Dorian finds himself looking down.

“The other day, when you were ill, that was...”

“I’d come from chemo,” Cullen says. His fingers splay against the edge of the countertop, pressing and relaxing in turns. It looks half like he’s trying to play a piano, though it would be the same collection of harsh notes over and over again were it ivory white keys under his hands and not granite. “I didn’t realize it would hit me so hard.” He goes still. “I should’ve told you then. I’ve been meaning to, but...” He shakes his head.

Somehow, this is worse. Dorian doesn’t have a frame of reference for this, and because he thought he understood, it’s thrown him. Jarring as misjudging the last step on an unfamiliar staircase. With Felix, everything has become routine—they talk about it, it’s a reality, but one well under control: his levels have been undetectable for years. He’s been lucky.

Whether or not Cullen will be lucky remains to be seen.

“I…understand if it’s a deal breaker. It’s a lot to process,” Cullen says. He switches to fidgeting with the back of his neck. “Trust me, I know, it’s—it’s not the best of circumstances for beginning a relationship. I really did mean to tell you, but it’s been so nice having...a friend. I didn’t want to, um...”

Something in the words makes Dorian sick to his stomach. It isn’t that Cullen is lying—quite the opposite. It’s clear he believes and means the things he’s saying. What’s unbearable is the distinct note of hope in his voice, in how he holds himself: hunched, resigned, but calm. Desperation would be bad enough, a perfectly reasonable, if awful, excuse to withdraw and never look back.

There’s none to be found. All Dorian hears is that thin, calm hope. No matter how he proceeds, it will feel like snapping a young thing’s neck.

“I’m sorry, I...” He brings a hand up, then lowers it. “I’m not quite sure what to say.” He knows very little about cancer, other than he expects to die of it someday himself. Three of his four grandparents went that way, but he was too young to grasp what it meant at the time. “What stage is it?”  

“Two,” Cullen replies. He rubs at his eye, then taps his chest with the knuckles of the opposite hand. “On the right side.” He keeps nodding to himself; small, nearly imperceptible, as if he’s hearing the information for the first time from his own lips.

Maybe it is the first time he’s hearing it from his own lips.

“I’m... I’m sorry,” Dorian repeats. What else is there to say? This isn’t about him, not really, and it isn’t his place to be reactionary. Titania stands between them and whines. He pats his leg, so she comes over and presses her face against his thigh. She’s always been sensitive to tension. He smooths her ears.

Cullen swipes at both eyes again, but he stands still. It isn’t full on crying yet, though it’s starting. Any second now.

“I...need some time,” Dorian says softly. “I need to go.”

A heavy swallow, and Cullen nods. He crosses his arms and hangs his head and looks, somehow, young and old at once. “I understand,” he croaks.

Titania goes over to him and noses his stomach, which brings a shaky smile to his face. His hand lowers to stroke her head and she wags her tail at him. She’s never been one to be demonstrative with people she doesn’t know well, but she’s liked Cullen from the start.

Time to go. Dorian needs to go, before he’s crying too and this muted little storm turns into a hurricane. He sets his juice on the counter and closes the space between them.

Carefully, he pulls Cullen in and holds him, ignoring the warm, clean smell of his stubbled neck. “I’ll see you at group this week,” he says, squeezing him a final time before stepping away. They both know it’s a lie. He turns so he doesn’t have to watch Cullen’s face falling, but he feels it. The palpable, final drop in energy between them. It’s written in the sag of Cullen’s broad shoulders, the way his hands hang limp at his sides.  

All three of them walk to the door, where Dorian lets himself out. The early evening light is golden, thinner here than in the city. He waves as he climbs into the car and Cullen stands like a ghost in the doorway, expressionless. He lifts his hand—a small, incomplete gesture.

Dorian drives away.  

“I’m sorry,” he says out loud in the car. “I’m sorry.” He reaches and puts a hand on the dog, to feel her fur under his fingers.

It’s an hour before he pulls into a parking lot, half blinded by crying.

“There’s the catch,” he says to himself, white-knuckling the steering wheel. He grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, feels tears pour down his face. A frothing, helpless rage he hasn’t felt in years is boiling in his stomach. “There’s the fucking catch, Dorian.” He covers his mouth to keep from shouting and frightening the dog, who already has her ears folded down and is nosing him in the elbow. He puts a hand on her warm back and rubs at his eyes with the flat of his wrist.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

He isn’t sure who he’s apologizing to.  


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So it goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: More chemo and that sort of thing, but that’s about it? Thanks for sticking with me through this one folks ♥

Hawke looks shaken when Cullen tells him. Garrett’s eyes go soft and he yanks Cullen into what can only be described as a bear hug. The corner of his beard tickles. He smells of sweat and new wood and he’s substantial in all the ways that make a hug exceptional.

When they step away from one another, Garrett pushes the moisture out of his eyes and his trademark bluster is back. “Well,” he says, “I’m going to have trouble finding a replacement as tolerant of my jokes as you are. Anyone else would’ve murdered me by now.”

Cullen manages a laugh. “I’ve had a long time to build up an immunity.”

“We can make accommodations for you, if you’d like to keep your toe in things, but,” Garrett’s hand claps down on his shoulder—not softly, but lighter than it would have ten minutes ago. “I think you’d best get plenty of rest.”

It’ll mean filing some government paperwork, but his finances are one of the few areas of his life where Cullen feels no looming horror. He should be all right, for a while anyway. Depending on how things turn out, it may not matter much.

Suddenly, Hawke is hugging him again. He realizes he must’ve been wearing his worry on his face, and he’s grateful for the physical intervention, hugs him back for a few long moments before letting go.

“If you need anything,” Garrett says, “please, just ask.”

Cullen thanks him. He finishes out his morning doing light tasks before Hawke gently lets him know that the rest of the crew can handle the clean up. They were only doing a kitchen, and it’s been a smooth job so far. Everything to regulation, no plumbing snarls or tiling palavers. He pretends to be indignant at having his tidying abilities called into question, but he’s privately thankful to make his way home four hours early.

He still has to tell Cassandra. That’s not a conversation he’s looking forward to.

The rest of the week is long, and lonesome. He keeps waiting for a text that doesn’t come. Rationally, he knows it’s not coming. Dorian has every right to be angry, and in all likelihood he won’t want to continue what they’ve started even in a diminished capacity. To go from eighty to zero in an instant... Slamming on the brakes inevitably leaves bruises. He knows. He’s got a few of his own.   

Irrationally, he clings to the idea that Dorian will text him anytime now. Cullen imagines sitting next to him at Friday meditation, holding his hand. They’ll be able to talk afterward, and Cullen will apologize for keeping his failing health a secret, and Dorian will forgive him. They’ll work it out.

Except Cullen has chemo on Friday, and he won’t be in any shape to be in public when he’s done. His weekends are shot for the foreseeable future.

Still, he does want to talk to Dorian. Whatever they had, whatever they might’ve had given different circumstances, will be over and done with after the next time they speak, if it isn’t already, but Cullen needs to properly apologize. And to say thank you.

It’s been a difficult stretch of weeks and Dorian has, time and again, given him something to look forward to. Distraction, and companionship. He’ll make sure to tell him that, eventually, when he works up the nerve to make the call.   

One last hurrah. He never did manage to give him his birthday present.

He catches himself close to crying again, this time at work. It’s easy to play off as dust irritation and he sits down in the yard for ten minutes to stitch himself back together while he nurses an iced tea. The lawn is parched to beige and the dry blades of grass poke against his palms. At least the homeowners are obeying the watering restrictions, he thinks before shaking his head and leaning on his knees.

He’s used to being alone. He’s been alone most of his life, and he’ll be alone in this too, however long it lasts. Dorian is meant for someone else, and this interlude will fade to bittersweetness. The truth of it, Cullen’s truth, is that he isn’t likely to beat the odds. That’s not to suggest he’s indulging a pessimistic outlook, or to say he’s giving up. It’s merely acknowledging statistics. On a personal level he’ll fight until the very last breath because that’s what he does. His life is quiet, often lonely, riddled with mistakes he can’t undo, but he doesn’t always mind. He has a few kind friends who will help him, if he needs them to. If he can find it in himself to ask.

After Cassandra beats the snot out of him for not telling her right away, that is.

In a twist of fate that would almost be funny if it weren’t so worrisome, when he finally tells her later that evening, it’s Cullen who winds up hugging Cassandra. She’s unusually silent, and although her trademark stoicism is firmly in place, she seems unable to speak. She hugs him back, quite hard, and for several minutes. His arm begins to fall asleep.

“Cass,” he murmurs. “Cassandra, my arm.”  

“I...apologize.” She lets him go. “You will tell me if you need anything during your treatment? You could stay here with us, afterward. Or if you like, I could come with you?”

“Thank you, I’m...” He looks at the earnestness on her face, her scarred cheek an imperfect mirror reflection of his own lip, and trails off before he can say no. “Maybe you could come tomorrow for a while, or next week. I’m in the clinic all day.”

She nods gravely, pulls out her phone. “I will take the afternoon off tomorrow, if I am able.”  

He stays at her apartment for a couple of hours, and when Josephine arrives home she kisses him on both cheeks and plies him with sugar cookies. He’ll leave it to Cassandra to tell her. They agree on this without words, simply by locking gazes across the kitchen table. He’d prefer to tell her himself but he hasn’t made peace with the words, or with the sound of his own voice saying them. It’s tiring.

On Friday, they adjust his antiemetics. He’s chided for not mentioning something sooner, since dropping too much weight will work against him in the long run. The nurse has a list of suggestions a mile and a half long to help his appetite and he thanks her, but eating is the last thing he can think of when he’s being flooded with noxious chemicals. As promised, Cassandra arrives in the afternoon. She’s silent for a time, but tentatively she begins to talk about work, about the incoming kitten, about Josephine’s latest project partnering with a landscape architecture firm on a second contract.

“I may know someone who works there,” Cullen says. “Dorian Pavus?”

“Ah. I have met him.” Cassandra sounds unmoved by the experience. “Josephine enjoys his company, but I find him arrogant.” Her fingers curl over the arm of Cullen’s chair. “How do you know him?”

He takes a deep breath, tries to clutch at his thoughts to put them in order. “I suppose I dated him for a while this summer.”

Cassandra simply stares at him. Finally she reaches over and gives him a soft shove in the chest. “You didn’t tell me!”

“I wasn’t sure there was anything to tell.” And now there definitely isn’t.

“Still!” Cassandra takes hold of his free forearm. “You are not seeing him anymore?” Her eyes are bright and her cheeks pink with the prospect of discussing romance, thwarted or otherwise. It’s her dirtiest and worst kept secret.

“I don’t, uh...” Cullen rubs his cheek against his shoulder. They’re too hot again, that itchy sick feeling. He stares down at the IV nested near his elbow. “I don’t think so, no.”

Cassandra pats his upper arm. “Do you want me to kill him?”

Her deadpan is unmatched, partly because sometimes he’s convinced she’s half serious, and he manages a breathy laugh. “No, thank you. It’s not... It isn’t his fault. He didn’t know about this either,” he says, nodding at the IV. “And I can’t blame him for that.”

She exhales, slow, laden with things left unsaid, and goes back to rubbing his shoulder. “I am sorry, Cullen.”

For a few moments he has to close his eyes. “So am I.”

 

*

 

It’s after eleven and he’s in briefs and a t-shirt brushing his teeth when he hears the unmistakable crunch of tires on the front driveway. He thinks someone’s made a wrong turn, maybe campers looking for an empty lot to squat in for the night, and he expects them to beat a quick retreat once they see the house. Instead, headlights flood through the front windows, then the engine cuts. Cullen spits, rinses, and goes to the living room to grab his phone. He glances at it, but there’s nothing: no messages, no texts, no missed calls. He approaches the drapes and pulls one aside, but can’t make out the car in the dark.

He catches a glimpse of a leggy white dog prancing up the front path, and his heart thuds an extra beat.

There’s a series of small knocks at the door.

He opens it, and Titania comes skittering in, tail wagging. She headbutts him gracelessly in the crotch—not hard, thank god—and he pets either side of her ruff to settle her down. “Okay, hello,” he says to the dog. Her nose is cold on his bare legs.

Dorian stands on the stoop, still waiting.

“Come in,” Cullen says. Titania bounces to the kitchen, doubtless on a search for crumbs. Dorian crosses the threshold and Cullen shuts the door behind him.

Dorian paces to the end of the front hall, then back again.

“It’s late,” Cullen says. “What are you doing here?”

Once more to the end of the hall, back again. No reply. Titania heads from the kitchen to the living room at a trot, her nails clicking on the hardwood.

“Dorian—

“I don’t want to be friends,” Dorian says. His voice breaks mid-sentence, and he turns away.

Cullen’s heart sinks into his guts. Even if he does deserve this, even if he invited it with his lie of omission, he finds it unnecessarily cruel. He licks his lips. “You drove...all this way...just to tell me that you don’t want to be friends?”

Dorian whirls around, looking stricken. “No! I don’t mean...” His voice wavers on every word. He crosses his arms, huddles like he’s caught a chill. “I did a terrible thing to you this week, disappearing like that, and I’m not proud, but I was... I was upset. Whether or not I had any right to be.”

“You did,” Cullen says. In a rush, he realizes he’s not being specific enough. “H-have every right to be, I mean. I waited too long to tell you, and I’m sorry. But I knew that when I did, you would...” He chews the inside corner of his lip.

“React badly?” Dorian says. He laughs, but it’s a sad, pained laugh.

“That you would be rightfully unwilling to stay involved,” Cullen answers. “What I did was unfair and I can’t tell you enough how sorry I am.” He shakes his head. “But...I wanted to thank you. For everything. These last couple months have been...” He swallows, fighting to keep his voice steady. “They’ve meant a lot to me.”  

There’s a sniffle, then a little noise.

It dawns on Cullen that Dorian is crying.

“Me, too,” Dorian says. He pushes at the tears with the meat of his palm and flattens his mustache with a thumb and forefinger. His hands are shaking. “Listen, Cullen.” He recrosses his arms, uncrosses them again. Waves a hand through the air slowly as if he might grasp it, pull words out of it. “Cullen, I like you. More than I should. Far more than is wise, and you being sick, it’s...” He brings his hand to his lips. “I won’t be glib, it’s unfortunate. There’s a good chance this can only end in heartache for both of us.” A stray tear gets away on him, slips down his cheek to dampen the collar of his shirt. “But so help me, I want to try.” Another tear slides and he catches it at his jaw with the outside of his wrist. “Let’s just try.”

Cullen’s mouth opens, but no words come to him. He closes it again.

“By all means, if it’s too late,” Dorian takes a step forward, “if I’ve done irreparable harm then—Then tell me, and I’ll go. But I had to see you in person.”

Confusion twists Cullen’s lip. “I’m... Are you... I don’t understand.”

Dorian closes the gap between them. His fingers smooth over the corner of Cullen’s jaw, trail over the rim of his ear before he tucks a stray curl behind it. His gray eyes are clear under knit brows. “Can we try?”

Cullen blinks. He can’t be hearing this. “Dorian, I’m going to be sick for a long time. I may never be well again. All my hair’s probably going to fall out, for godsake.”

“I know.” He slings his arms about Cullen’s sides and holds him. “I know, and I want to be with you when it does. If you’ll have me.”

What he’s offering is overwhelming. Neither one of them can know yet what it means, and having been delivered exactly what he’s barely dared hope for, Cullen finds himself grasping stupidly for all the reasons it’s a bad idea. “I don’t want you to feel like—like you’re obligated just because I’m—”

“Oh, believe me,” Dorian cuts in, “my motivations are hardly noble. Entirely selfish, actually. This has nothing to do with obligation and everything to do with what I want.” He meets Cullen’s gaze. “Which happens to be you.”

The unlikelihood, the stunning improbability of it all, is beyond believing. Cullen can only stammer, blunder for an answer. “I’m... I...”  

“I do have one caveat.”

Cullen nods, waits for it.

“You must be absolutely honest with me about your treatment from here on out. If I’m to be in this, if I’m to be involved,” he tongues the corner of his lip in consideration, then huffs. “Then I have to be fully involved. Blood counts, toxicity levels, for both our sakes I need to know how you’re doing. No more secrets. Please.”

It’s against everything in his nature to share the gritty details. There are days it will be like pulling teeth. But he nods, once, then again more firmly. If they’re going to do this, then it’s only fair. “That’s fair,” Cullen says. “I never... It wasn’t my intention to lie to you. I am sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“You know,” Dorian sighs a breath. “I’ve thought about it, and I’m not.” He takes Cullen’s hand. “If you had, I probably wouldn’t be here and this...is where I want to be, right now.” His fingers trace a pattern against Cullen’s palm. “I’ll admit, I wish you weren’t sick, but not for myself. Not because I don’t want to deal with you being ill. I only mean that it hurts, to think someone I care for is hurting. And I wish you weren’t.” He sheds another flustered tear, laughs quietly to himself. “I’m sorry, that’s not terribly helpful is it.”

Cullen’s throat tightens. He feels his eyes stinging, so he presses his face into Dorian’s neck. Everything he’s said, all he’s done, what he’s willing to give still, is far more generosity than Cullen deserves. “Oh,” he wipes his eyes. “Oh, your birthday present.”

He retreats to his small office by the front door and comes back with the gift. “Very belated, and I’m afraid it’s not much. I’d meant to give it to you last weekend, but...” They both know how that ended.

Dorian steps forward and takes it, holds it up to the light.

“I noticed you had a couple on your windowsill and I thought...” Cullen clears his throat. “I tried to get one with lots of closed blossoms but they’ve, um, they’ve opened during the week.”

“Orchids like cool nights,” Dorian says, eyeing the blooms.

“It’s small but I thought the pattern was remarkable.” Cullen’s fingers go to the back of his neck and he stops himself after a moment. “If... If you’d prefer another colour I could—

“Cullen.” There’s a pause of several seconds before Dorian sets the plant aside and hugs him. “Hush. It’s lovely. Thank you.”

Titania circles back to them from her exploring, looking at them both like she’s mystified as to what they’re doing. It’s past her bedtime, Cullen remembers. No doubt this whole trip has confused her.

“Did you have chemo this week?” Dorian asks. “Have I missed it?”

“It was today, actually.”

“Oh god, and here I am turning up unannounced on your doorstep at all hours, I’m so sorry. Please, send me off if you’re in a bad way, I don’t have to stay.”

“No, no, I’m tired but it’s all right.” Dorian is warm. He smells of faded deodorant and sweat from the nervousness and tension seeping from his pores. It’s a comfortable, human smell. “Stay,” Cullen says. “It’s late, and I’d be... I’m glad to have you.”

Dorian squeezes him. He’s still bleary-eyed and crying and Cullen gentles him with fingers through his hair.

“I’ll go get my things from the car,” he says quietly.

“You...brought an overnight bag?”

Dorian starts laughing in the midst of his tears. He presses his nose to Cullen’s sternum. “I’m presumptuous that way.”

“Knew I wouldn’t be able to say no to you, huh?”

“Who could?” he replies, smirking. It doesn’t hold. “No, in all honesty I expected to be routed, and rightly so. But I figured I’d protest the decision by camping in your hammock.”

The very idea of it sets Cullen chuckling. “You would’ve frozen out there. You’ve no constitution for the cold.”

“I would’ve huddled with Titania for warmth.”

Now there’s an image.

Dorian heads out into the night and returns with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. “So, how much pink underwear do you own, exactly?”

Cullen looks down to discover that he is indeed wearing another pair of the once-white, now pink briefs. “It was by accident,” he says. “I’ve no great talent for laundry.”

“You do have quite a lot of red shirts, don’t you. It’s bound to happen.”

They proceed upstairs, where there’s a second small bathroom and the rest of the floor is occupied by Cullen’s dresser, closet, and bed. Dorian cranes his neck to take in the sloped white wood ceilings, the huge open window. There’s a cool breeze billowing through the curtains. “I like your bedroom,” he says. “Could use a chair by that window. It’d be a pleasant spot to read.”

A few minutes of shuffling, stripping, rearranging of blankets, and the room is suitable for two and a dog. Cullen climbs into bed while Dorian brushes his teeth, and soon after, Dorian curls into him and they settle. They have to invite Titania up several times before she finally accepts the urging and coils herself in a ball halfway on top of Cullen’s feet. The sheets warm around them much faster than usual, even with chill night air flowing through the room.

“It’s so quiet,” Dorian whispers. “And dark.”

“Long way from the city out here.” Cullen shifts his leg so that it lines up against Dorian’s. He nuzzles into the side of his head, breathing him.

With a shiver, Dorian snuggles closer. “I always forget what it’s like.”

They don’t speak, for a time. The dog snuffles and chews at one of her forelegs before stretching out with a puppyish grumble.

Dorian has a hand on Cullen’s stomach under his shirt, and he’s stroking the fuzz there with his thumb.

“Are you sure about this?” Cullen asks him. The same doubts keep spinning in his head and he suspects nothing will calm them, but he asks anyway.

Dorian is silent for several long seconds. “No,” he says. “But...that part doesn’t worry me.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No, because I’m not any less sure than I have been in any other relationship. I’ve got lousy intuition but it’s clear even to me that this is...” He adjusts his head on Cullen’s shoulder. “It’s something worth having. I won’t say it’s a sure thing because that would be a lie, but...” His hand climbs to Cullen’s chest, curls there. “Can I be very honest with you for a moment?”

“You can.”

“Those first two nights we spent together, they couldn’t have been more different. But they both felt like...” He moves his head. “Like a tectonic shift. Not like you’d always been there, but as though those moments had been a long time coming. As if each of us arriving to those specific circumstances was the best possible outcome for that particular point in our lives. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

“So you’re saying...we’re meant to be?” Cullen asks.

“No! God, no, nothing so saccharine. Especially not given your health, I would never suggest that was meant to be. I’m talking probability. Physics, atoms colliding. The underlying cosmic stuff that keeps all of us hurtling through the void one molecule at a time.”

Cullen starts to smile. “Destiny, then.”

A pained sigh from Dorian. “Only if you promise not to use that word in front of people.”

“Well, what should I call it?”

“Happenstance. Serendipity? No, I don’t like that one either. How about...plain old sheer luck?”

At the foot of the bed, Titania sighs. She wants to go to sleep, and the humans are being difficult. Cullen presses his nose into Dorian’s soft, unruly bangs. “Sure,” he agrees. “Luck it is.”

He wakes first in the morning. Dorian has encased himself in an extra blanket and he’s practically spooning the dog, who unfolded in the night to fill up the remaining space on the bed. Somehow, Cullen manages to slip away without disturbing them, though Titania knows he’s awake. Her tail gives two flops, but she stays put. Unfamiliar territory too great a deterrent to follow him, maybe. More likely she knows her breakfast will only be dispensed by the man still asleep beside her.

Downstairs, he flicks the kettle on. Coffee has been exceptionally bitter to him since starting chemo, but when Anders heard about his diagnosis he sent some loose leaf green tea with Hawke, and that seems to go down easy.

He’s sitting in a patch of sun on the back porch when the dog appears, followed closely by Dorian. Apparently he’s helped himself to Cullen’s sweater drawer, since he’s bundled in a thick knitted wool one, and he tousles Cullen’s hair before proceeding down onto the lawn to tidy up after Titania.

Once that’s squared away he disappears to wash up, then comes back outside with his own mug of tea. Titania sets her elegant snout in Cullen’s lap and he strokes her for a minute or two before she wanders into the yard and begins menacing a stick. It’s easy to forget she’s still a bit of a teenager. The game has her full attention, and Dorian only shakes his head.

“To think I welcomed that creature into my home willingly,” he says.

“You’ve welcomed worse.” Cullen gestures loosely at himself.

Dorian barks a laugh and leans from his seat to plant a kiss on the side of his head. His hand goes to the back of Cullen’s neck, and his fingers are wonderfully warm from holding his tea.

They sit in comfortable silence, spectating the dog’s antics for several minutes. Finally she tires and after a roll in the grass, she stretches out to nap.

“Dorian, if... If you ever want to end this, at any time, please say so. Don’t stay because you feel badly for me.”

A few small birds flit through the yard, chirruping. Dorian doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Eventually he sets his cup on the deck and leans across the arm of the chair to pull Cullen into an awkward, sideways hug. “Why would I feel badly for you when you have such a handsome, clever boyfriend?” he whispers.

Cullen snorts. “I’m serious.”

He rubs Cullen’s back and leans away again. “If it comes to that, then...I promise I won’t. But even should that be the case, I’ll still do all I can for you. You’re a friend. I’d want to help.” He picks up his drink, swallows a mouthful. “How about that?”  

Cullen sighs, stares into his own half empty mug. He can’t bring himself to say that things rarely, if ever, end that cleanly, that it’s never that simple.

“Let’s not worry about it just now, shall we?” Dorian insists, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “I’ve found that if I’m still fond of someone after they’ve fallen asleep and drooled profusely on me, there’s already a solid foundation in place.”

“Me and the dog are alike in that sense, then?” Cullen says with a tiny smile.

Dorian breaks into laughter, nudges his fingers through the curls on Cullen’s nape and leaves them there. “Very gentle beasts both, of a good conscience.”

They sit warming themselves in the thin sun until it takes on the strength and heat of the coming day. It’s beautiful, but even if it were mist gray and pouring rain, Cullen would still feel brightness. Hope as hot as anything. It can’t save him, but it does soothe him. Later, he feels it all welling too close to the surface. He buries his face in Dorian’s shoulder, in the borrowed sweater, holds him, brushes his thumb against the start of dark stubble on his cheek.

“I know,” Dorian says softly. His arms cinch Cullen in close. “I know. I’m here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue to follow soon, I hope...


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of vignettes of their first year or so, from Dorian's POV. I definitely consider this a somewhat separate piece from the story itself, but it directly follows, so epilogue it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Mild animal cruelty in a dream, which does not involve Titania. Bull makes an appearance for real this time, so beware of that if you’re not into him! Some discussion of weight in a few places, in case anybody finds that upsetting. A somewhat nsfw moment near the end. Other than the usual cancer stuff, I think that’s it? (Big thanks to [symmetry](http://archiveofourown.org/users/symmetry/pseuds/symmetry) for helping me sort out some edits!)

 

EPILOGUE 

“Tell me,” Dorian grumbles, dragging a palm down his face, “do you always fly awake ready to take on an army at five o’clock in the morning, or is that some side effect of your medication?” If it’s the medication, Dorian wouldn’t mind some for himself, frankly.

With a snort, Cullen nuzzles against the back of his neck, snuffling into the hairline. It tickles. “I’m afraid that’s all me,” he murmurs. “Hard habit to break. Though...” he leans to peer at Dorian’s heavy curtains, ear tuned to the window they obscure. A siren wails on the park causeway and a group of people passes by below, talking in low voices. “It’s much worse when I’m in the city. The noise...”

“Hm, they’re filming in the alley.” Dorian exhales. “Whenever they begin pulling up and parking those enormous white trucks I brace myself for three days of disruption at all hours.” A huge yawn stretches his jaw and his fingers knit with Cullen’s where they’re slung over his stomach. He resettles his head on the pillow, and he hopes it goes unsaid that he intends to fall back to sleep.

Cullen sets his forehead against Dorian’s back. Last night he was energetic enough that they managed a satisfying tryst, but today it’s yet another chemo appointment, and another few days of recovery after it. They both know he has to be to the hospital in three hours for his treatment, but Dorian can get him there in ten minutes. They’ve got time to doze.

Outside, the city bustles. Car doors open and close, distant traffic hums, punctuated by the odd whizz of a bicycle, or footsteps. Eventually, Dorian feels his fingers going slack and his breathing deepens. Sleep comes.

When he wakes again later, Cullen is smiling at him. Their noses brush, then Cullen kisses the prominent bump on the bridge of Dorian’s. “You snore,” he says.

“I do not,” Dorian trails into another yawn. He knows he does, but it’s the principle of the thing.

“Titania, tell him he snores,” Cullen says to the dog. White ears perk and the tail flops, then she lifts her head and huffs a small woof. Cullen laughs like he can’t believe his good fortune. “See?”

Dorian whacks him softly with a pillow.

 

*

“Between you and the dog I hardly have any couch left to my name.”

Cullen eases up into a sit and pats the spot next to him, where he’s been resting with his face nestled into a throw pillow. He’s worn out—dark eye circles, no colour in his cheeks. A week ago he shaved his head to a regulation buzz, since his hair was looking a bit thin and patchy, and neither one of them is used to it yet. The day he did it Dorian gifted him a soft brick-red beanie. He’s scarcely taken it off since.

“Are you sure?” Dorian asks. A nod from Cullen, so he wedges himself in. “Here,” Dorian wriggles down into the cushions and puts a hand on his own abdomen. “Lie back down, if you like.”

He doesn’t need to tell Cullen twice. He curls up with his ear to Dorian’s stomach and closes his eyes. His feet are somewhere under snoozing Titania, who seems unfazed by the rearrangement save for a huffed sigh. Dorian cracks open his book and balances it on the arm of the sofa.

“You’re not soft enough for this to work well,” Cullen mumbles a few minutes later. It makes Dorian snicker, and the clench of his stomach seems to make Cullen snicker in turn.  

“I don’t know, I’m pretty soft these days.” He never did lose those last ten pounds after the breakup with Bull. Those were long, sad months. For both of them, really. Not to mention that he might’ve put on a few over the summer, though he won’t own to that unless pressed.

“Not as soft as me,” Cullen grumbles.

Dorian frowns. That statement outlines a troubling misconception Cullen can’t seem to let go of. Although he’s still got some heft, he’s lost a significant amount of weight since they met. “You’ve been looking a bit skinny, actually. We need to find more things you can keep down.”

Cullen only grunts.

Arguing with him won’t go anywhere. “So, you’d still like me if I were a little softer, hm?” Dorian rubs Cullen’s back.

A pause. Cullen nuzzles closer. “If you intend to play the role of pillow with any frequency, it couldn’t hurt.”

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I’m craving chocolate croissants for breakfast.” Dorian adjusts his glasses and his book, then goes back to reading, palm still pressed to Cullen’s back.  

 

*

In early November the storms arrived, and they’ve lingered since. It rains mightily, pours like a split in heaven is emptying some celestial river over their heads. Fall has gone the literal route this year, life spilling back into dry ground after a hot summer, and Dorian is quietly thankful, even if it is so loud this night that it’s woken all three of them up.

Cullen is restless. Unwell. No matter how they adjust his medications, he struggles with nausea and a bone-deep weariness that spins frequently into anxiety. He’s to finish his third cycle this Friday after a two week delay because of low blood counts, and he won’t admit it aloud but it’s apparent to Dorian he feels as though this deviation from the planned schedule is somehow a failing on his part. There’s been debate regarding whether or not finishing the cycle will be appreciably beneficial. The tumour has shrunk, as intended, and next on the medical itinerary is surgery, which Dorian has researched in passing. Most procedures are hard on the body, but in his reading he stumbled across a diagram that illustrated the clipping of multiple ribs to access the lung, a further trauma that will mean a long, slow recovery. Thinking about it makes him sick with worry.

“We’re all going to die,” Cullen whispers.

Dorian strokes the shell of his ear. In a sense he’s right, of course, but he isn’t being philosophical. “It’s not raining _that_ hard.”

“No, I mean...the world, what we’ve done. It’s too late now.”

Cullen’s eyes are puffy, and his cheeks look hot. The chemo drugs seem to twist his awful dreams into even more disfigured, terrible things, and the feelings carry over into his waking hours. Though it’s interesting to note that human hubris is tonight’s particular demon. Maybe not so irrational to fixate on that.

“Nightmares again?” Dorian prompts. Cullen feels better when he talks them out, but he always needs prompting.

“I dreamed about a coyote. Five people had killed his mate, and they were standing around laughing. They’d broken his jaw and it was hanging oddly. I...I wanted to help him, but they were pelting us both with stones and the coyote wouldn’t come to me. Of course he wouldn’t come. I followed him away into a woodlot but then the rain...” He swivels his head to glance at the window, where droplets patter the glass in the dark. “It woke me up.”

Dorian holds him. Fulfills his duties as big spoon. “There’s no hurt coyote, darling. You didn’t fail anyone.”

“Maybe,” Cullen says. He rubs at one of his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Sometimes all Dorian can do is lie next to him and keep him warm. Provide feeble reassurance by existing close to him, by touching him. This is what he agreed to do when he decided he wanted their lives interwoven in defiance of the odds, no matter how many bad days there would be.

There have been more than a few. Every time, all Dorian feels is relief that Cullen isn’t alone in it. That he has someone to lean back into after he’s thrown up for the third time in an hour. To his credit, Cullen is seldom overtly cranky. His pain and misery are self-contained, inwardly directed. Instead of being a grouch he slips away and buries his face in the dog’s fur. Titania follows him around like a steadfast shadow, ready to play the kerchief. After a few minutes, he usually doesn’t mind if Dorian seeks them out and joins them. The three of them are getting quite good at forming a comfortable huddle.

Instead of slowing, the rain outside intensifies. Cullen coughs, turns in Dorian’s arms and tucks his head firmly against his chest.

“They’ve given me a date for my operation,” he says.

This is news. Dorian clamps down on the instinct to ask when he heard. “This month?”

Silence. Rainfall. “January.”

At least it isn’t before Christmas, but January is barreling down on them fast. “Is that enough time from when your chemo ends?” It seems too close, cutting it too fine.

Cullen only shrugs. “Up to the doctors, I suppose.”

He falls asleep after that. Cullen sleeps, and Dorian worries. His fingers seek out the rough plastic of the light switch, flick it on—Cullen has told him again and again that it doesn’t bother him, and so far it holds true. He sleeps soundly, undisturbed. There’s a book on the bedside table, and Dorian picks it up. He’s off on holiday soon enough, so if he has to muddle through tomorrow overtired it’s of no great consequence. December is a quiet month for him, given the nature of his work.  

Instead of reading, he keeps glancing down at Cullen. Determined, skinny Cullen drooling on the pillow. His cheekbones have new sharpness and his pink ears stand out against his imperfectly bare scalp. His left hand is curled against Dorian’s stomach, and it twitches in his sleep.

Dorian sucks in a shaking breath and sets his book aside. He puts a hand on Cullen’s shoulder, rubs his back.

A few chemo sessions in, he thought he’d made peace with the reality of their life together. Temporary was the word he’d come to uneasy terms with. They both know what they’re up against—the risks, the statistics. Every couple weeks Cullen tells him, in his strong, quiet voice, that he doesn’t have to stay, and every time Dorian reassures him that he wants to.

His fingers trail over one of Cullen’s pointed vertebra and in the inexplicable, inescapable suddenness of the trivial, it brings Dorian to a standstill. Frozen, as if by electrocution, in a moment of knowing. It’s been almost six months and in this second, he knows. His heart squeezes too tight and he rubs at his face.

Unspoken or otherwise, love isn’t a comfortable word.

 

*

He runs into Bull by accident. It’s a literal sort of running into: he takes one step backward from the deli counter at the grocery store after accepting a packet of smoked turkey from the attendant, and feels a wall of heat behind him.

“Gracious, I’m sorry, I—

Bull smiles down at him with a glint in his one benevolent eye. “Dorian. Good to see you.”

He swallows. “Hello.” There’s no walking away this time.

“Sorry to sneak up. I knew if you saw me you’d bolt.”

Dorian proceeds to the meat fridge on the other side of the aisle. The old walls rise into place and he’s damned if he’s going to make things easy. “So you knew I’d prefer not to speak to you, and you decided to try it on anyway. Charming.” He doesn’t mean a word of it, and Bull’s small, unwavering smile lets him know he can tell. He always could tell.  

“C’mon,” Bull rumbles. “We can say hello.” His basket is full of milk and meat, sundry spices, a big bag of chocolate-covered almonds. There’s some element of the man’s chemistry that makes him smell like everything Dorian has ever wanted a lover to smell like, and the attraction never dims, never dulls. He has to turn away to keep from greedily pulling it in, from staring at the thatch of hair spilling from the v-neck of Bull’s shirt exposed under his unbuttoned wool coat. “It’s been months, Dorian. I like the,” he gestures to his jaw. “Full beard suits you. You look good.”  

With a breath, Dorian lowers his head and makes his way into the next closest aisle. Canned goods. Bull carefully follows.

“Don’t do this to me right now,” Dorian pleads quietly. “I’m seeing someone.”

“I know, and I’m not after anything,” Bull says. “Except chickpeas,” he plucks a can off the shelf in front of them, holding it up label out for Dorian to see.

“How did you know I was seeing someone?”

Bull tosses the chickpeas into his basket. “Krem told me.”

Of course he did.

“He’s sick though, right? Your man. Is he doing okay?”

Dorian closes his eyes. “As okay as he can be, I suppose.”

“I’d like to meet him sometime,” Bull says.

“Whatever for?”

Bull rolls his massive shoulders in a shrug. “He’s obviously making you happy.”

“And how do you know that, pray tell.”

The tip of a canine shows in Bull’s smile. “You get thick when you’re happy.”

Typical. Infuriating, and typical. With a harsh exhale, Dorian turns and walks away. He makes one further detour to grab a box of frozen waffles, since it’s one of the few things Cullen seems to be able to get down, and lines up at the checkout. Sure enough, Bull elects to go through the second open line, and they finish at nearly the same moment.

Bull falls in beside him on the pavement outside. “Hey,” he says. “Hey, I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have gone there.”

“You’re not exactly as trim as you used to be either,” Dorian growls at him.

“I’m bulking right now. Look, Dorian, I know our deal is our deal, but I wanted to tell you...”

“What!” Dorian stops. By stopping, he’s giving in. Every barb he slings at Bull is a defense against falling into old, bad habits, but he’s out of energy and he lowers his spines. What’s coming is something he knows he shouldn’t want, but he still does. Always will. Quietly he asks, “Wanted to tell me what, exactly?”

Massive arms close around him and the tickle of stubble catches against the side of his head. Bull is encompassing. Hot, thick, soft, and strong. There’s no describing how perfect he smells; that innate healthy musk. His hair has gotten long and it’s tied back in a rough, loose bun. Dorian is equal parts thankful and furious that he can’t clutch him back: the grocery bags are in the way.

“I know it can be rough, when someone’s sick. If you ever want to talk about it, I’ll listen.” Bull’s whole, deep chest rumbles with the words.

Vivid memories of their fucking flood Dorian, unbidden, and he scrabbles ungracefully out of the hug, pulls away. “Thank you, but I can’t see you. You know that.”

“Dorian, it’s been years, I don’t—

“I have to go,” Dorian says.

“Is he here?” Bull asks. He glances around, lifts his head to stare at something on the other side of the road.

“Yes, and I have to go right now.” Dorian steps between two parked cars, checks both ways and trots across when the traffic breaks. There’s a rangy figure in a red beanie seated at a table by the plate glass café window watching him do it.

Bull must’ve seen him. And Cullen has seen them, too. As soon as Dorian steps into the café, he knows he’s seen them. He’s staring at Dorian with the same expression Titania puts on when he chides her for sticking her nose in something that might do her harm.

“Was that Bull?” he asks.

“Yes.” Dorian adjusts his hold on the grocery bags. “Yes, that was Bull. Are you ready to go?”

Cullen glances at the paper cup in his hand, fumbles to put the lid back on it. “S-Sure.”

Both of them are silent on the drive home.

They’re lying on the couch together after dinner when Cullen pulls his beanie off. His scalp is shaved close but he hasn’t lost every hair perfectly—there’s the odd bit of velvet here and there. That hat hardly leaves his head, and when it does he clutches it in a hand, tangles his fingers in it. He holds it that way now, near his chest, thumb working the soft threads.

“You still have feelings for him,” he says in a small voice.

The resignation in it is heartbreaking. Dorian sighs. “Cullen, please... It’s not like that.”

Cullen turns and buries his face, pointed nose first, in Dorian’s armpit. “You deserve more than this,” he whimpers.

Anger bubbles in Dorian’s stomach, but all it does is bring tears to his eyes. “Shush,” he says to Cullen. “I won’t hear it right now.”  

“I mean it,” Cullen says, muffled into his ribs. “I mean it.”

“Well so do I!” Dorian snarls. He feels liquid seep down his cheeks, into his beard. Cullen stills in his arms. His fingers tense in the wool of the beanie, then unclench. Tense again. Dorian leans and presses his lips to Cullen’s scalp. “I’m sorry. Please.” Slowly, he covers Cullen’s hand with his own. “I can’t have this conversation tonight.”

Several seconds pass. The dog comes over to check on both of them; she gets uncomfortable when people raise their voices. Dorian pats her to let her know it’s not to worry, and she licks Cullen’s cheek before withdrawing to curl on the rug next to them.

Cullen rubs at his eyes and burrows closer against him. “Okay,” he says.

 

*

“Your sister again?”

Cullen nods, then sets the phone aside. “I don’t know how else to say no. She keeps intimating that if it’s a money thing, she and her partner will pay to fly me over there for Christmas.”

“That’s very dear of her, but surely sweet, generous Mia knows you can’t travel right now.” Plastic pinches the bridge of his nose, and he pushes his glasses up. “Boarding a plane while immunocompromised is essentially inviting death to take you. Tell her that.” He’s spent all morning reading recipes, trying to plan a small holiday dinner for them and a few of their friends.

Only silence from Cullen.

Dorian looks up from his ipad, stares at him for several long seconds. “You haven’t told her.”

Cullen puffs air through his nostrils and looks away.

“Oh my god, Cullen. You haven’t told your siblings?”

He holds up a hand. “They’ll only worry, and there’s no sense in it. There’s nothing they can do from bloody Paris, or—or Frankfurt, anyway!”

Dorian covers his face with both hands, pushing his glasses up and off. “This is absurd. This is absolutely absurd.”

“Would you tell your father?” Cullen demands, arms outstretched.

“Don’t bring my problems into this, it’s different and you know it. Your siblings haven’t arranged international kidnappings or hired PIs to spy on you, though with how little you tell them of your life I wouldn’t be surprised if they start.”

Cullen blinks. “Your father had you kidnapped?”

“It’s a long fucking story and now isn’t the time.”

“Jesus Christ,” Cullen mumbles. “Look, I’ll tell them when—When I have something to tell one way or the other, all right? After my surgery, maybe.”

“And if you die on the operating table?” Dorian knows as he’s saying it he’s made a mistake.

Cullen stands up, walks into the bedroom, pauses in the doorframe with his fingers brushing the wood. “Then you’ll tell them for me, I’m sure. You can tell them about us while you’re at it.” The door swings most of the way shut. A minute later Titania slots her snout through the gap and disappears after him.

The sting of the words builds to a sorry, sick warmth in Dorian’s cheeks; picks the scab of an old wound on his heart he’d thought Bull managed to close for good with brash, fearless openness. He feels himself caving in at the chest, shrinking to cross his arms over his stomach.

It sounded harsher than intended, Dorian tries to remind himself. Cullen suffers from an acute private nature, so intrinsic to how he relates to the world that Dorian still doesn’t know a lot of things about him, things that most people would’ve volunteered ages ago as a matter of due course. His birthplace, and hometown, where he served with the armed forces, exactly what happened to him on his tour of duty: all glaring unknowns, gaps that Dorian must navigate or guess at. With Cullen, broaching certain topics begets nothing save deflection and thick stone walls, and aside from matters of health, Dorian is unwilling to press. He only knows his middle name because he happened to see a piece of mail left sitting out addressed to Cullen Stanton Rutherford.  

Bearing that in mind, perhaps the reason he hasn’t told his siblings about the relationship has more to do with how they’d react than it has to do with Dorian. He doesn’t care for the secrecy, but he does understand why it might be necessary. They’ll have to talk about all this, but maybe not today. He takes a few deep breaths, then goes back to his recipes.  

An hour passes. It’s getting on toward lunch time. Dorian sticks his head in to see Cullen and the dog curled up on top of the covers, sound asleep. As much as he’d like to join them, he decides he’d best make them some food. Cullen is having real trouble keeping weight on and Dorian keeps trying to entice him, most often to no avail. Unfortunately, due to his efforts, he’s the one who’s putting on a stray pound here and there. It’s adding up. Bull was right, he’s looking a bit thick. He needs to start going to the gym again.

He grabs a pot and a cutting board. Pulls half the vegetables out of the fridge. Then, he pours himself a large glass of red wine. His kitchen rattlings attract the dog, and a minute later sleepy Cullen ghosts out of the bedroom wrapped in one of Dorian’s cashmere sweaters. He leans on the opposite side of the bar and surveys the ingredients.

“Can I help?”

Dorian slides a cutting board, knife, and stalk of celery over to him. “You can chop.” He glances down at Titania, her large eyes intent. “And you can kindly get out from underfoot, thank you.” She retreats to beg on Cullen’s side of the counter instead.

The soup turns out fine. A bit plain, but it’s for Cullen’s sake, and for once he manages to eat a full serving. He still looks tired. Dorian stands to clear their bowls away and when he comes back to the table he stays on his feet, puts his hand on the back of Cullen’s neck. Cullen presses the side of his face into Dorian’s stomach and slings an arm around his legs.

“I’ll tell her,” he says softly. “I’ll call her back tomorrow.”

“Good,” Dorian says.

“I’ll tell her about you, too,” Cullen adds.

Dorian softens his stance. “You don’t have to tell them about us if they won’t take it well,” he says. “I understand if it’s not something you’re comfortable sharing.”

Cullen starts to chuckle, and he swivels to plant a kiss on Dorian’s abdomen. He reaches for his phone and opens a text thread, taps on a photo, holds it out. One of the people in it Dorian recognizes as Cullen’s sister, Mia, and next to her stands a beautiful woman with tightly wound dark curls, holding a baby. “Mia’s partner,” Cullen says, smiling. “Bran and Rosie both love her so I, uh, I can’t imagine they’ll be too worried about you.”

“I...” Dorian takes the phone from him for a closer look, then gently smacks the back of Cullen’s head. “I can’t believe you. A gay sister _and_ a baby niece, and I knew nothing!”

“I’ve only met her partner a few times. Haven’t met the pup.”

That makes Dorian pause. Sad, to think a family that loves one another is so far apart they haven’t all met. “Do they have names?”

“Oh, um, Grace, and the baby is Hazel.”

Dorian hands Cullen his phone back. He marches into the bedroom and rifles for one of his warmer jackets, adds a scarf. In the living room he pulls on some ankle boots and tucks his wallet in a pocket.

“Where are you going?” Cullen asks him, incredulous.  

“We’re out of milk. And I’m buying that child a stuffed animal, post-haste.” If he puts it in the mail in the next couple of days, it might just make it in time for Christmas.

 

*

“You must come to our New Year’s Eve party! Oh, tell me you’ll come?” Josephine pleads, clutching Cullen’s hands in her own.

“I—We will, of course,” Cullen tells her.

Josephine has invited everyone who dined with them tonight, strangers and friends alike. She even invited the dog.

She leans in and kisses Cullen on both cheeks, then lets him go and reaches for Dorian, to dole out the same treatment. “Goodness, your beard!” she says, giggling. “It...tickles.” Her gaze turns to Cullen, with a coy look about the eyes that reduces Dorian to stifled laughter. Cullen seems altogether oblivious, otherwise he’d be manifesting a furiously red blush.

Cassandra loops an arm around her waist. “Josephine, it is getting late.” Josephine’s coat is in her other hand, and she helps her into it, the soft brown leather creaking when she zips it. She then piles an enormous scarf over Josephine’s head. “How excessive,” Cassandra says. She grins, and Josephine grins, and they exchange a quick kiss. “Are you sure you don’t want any help with the dishes, Dorian?” Cassandra asks, serious again in a flash.

“No, no! Think nothing of it.” What Dorian wants is everyone out of his apartment, roughly an hour ago. It’s past midnight and while the revelry has been very merry, he spent the better part of the day on his feet in the kitchen, and he’s done. Done like the picked over turkey carcass Titania is eyeballing on the countertop. Plus, Cullen is looking wan, and it’s past his bedtime.

With a final exchange of goodbyes, everyone, at long last, diffuses to fading footsteps down the hallway.

Dorian closes his apartment door and turns around to press his back to it. He lets out a groaning sigh. Cullen stands midway between the kitchen and the table, clutching what’s left of the mashed potatoes. Titania stands under him, hopeful he’ll drop the bowl.

“Never...again,” Dorian says, holding up a steady finger. Ten people, not including himself and Cullen, crammed around his tiny dining table drinking wine and devouring food while arguments and humor got sillier and sillier with every bottle uncorked. Garrett had to be the worst offender on that front. “I’ve never been so overwhelmed with bisexuals in all my life.”

Cullen looks somewhat forlorn. “Hawke finished the stuffing,” he laments.

That would be what he’s upset about, Garrett’s bogarting of everyone’s favorite side dish. Not the two hours of clean up they have left to do. “Darling, I’ll make you more stuffing. Pass me the Brussel sprouts, would you?”

He does it. “Cassandra liked your fancy cranberry sauce,” Cullen adds, holding up another empty bowl. “She was practically eating it with a spoon.”

“I’m surprised Josephine let her get away with that.”

Cullen growls a thick laugh. “Josie was _drunk_ ,” he says. “Otherwise we’d never have found out we had so many bisexual guests.”

“Yes, most enlightening. All this time I’ve had one of my very own and I never knew.” Dorian gives Cullen’s nearest asscheek a pat on his way to round up the remains of the roast vegetables. There’s precious little of anything left, which is a relief as far as storing it all goes.  

“For a long time I scarcely knew it myself,” Cullen admits, in that pleasing, bashful way of his. He pauses to lean on the back of a chair, and that’s the excuse Dorian has been waiting for.

“You go get ready for bed. I’ll handle this. Go,” he points to the bedroom. “Shoo.”

Cullen obeys.

After the leftovers are stashed and the dog has been taken out one last time, Dorian opts to leave the bulk of the cleaning for morning. The worst of the pans are in to soak, and everything else will keep.

He’s exhausted. Lower back pain, sore heels, sore cheeks from smiling—though he supposes that can hardly be counted among the negatives. In the bedroom Cullen is bundled in the covers, bare-headed after wearing a brand new gray beanie throughout the evening. By the look of him he’s about to pass out any minute. Dorian strips naked and brushes his teeth before crawling into bed beside him on his belly. He face-plants into his pillow with a slow, indulgent groan.

“I’m going to sleep until the new year,” he says.

“Best not miss Josie’s party,” Cullen insists, nestling close. “I’d hate to be the one to have to tell her you’re not coming.”

Dorian snorts. “Fine, wake me a day early, then.”

When he snaps into the present again minutes later and the lights are still on, he realizes how tired he is. Cullen is half-dozing next to him, eyes nearly shut, knuckles curled in the small of Dorian’s back. He looks happy, but...

Frail. That’s the word Dorian keeps trying to ignore, to corral, but inevitably it pushes its way to the fore. As soon as Cullen leaves toast uneaten, or falls asleep mid-morning, or grips Dorian for support in the kitchen as he makes tea, the word pushes back. Truly, he’s looking quite frail.

He shifts his cheek on the pillow. They’ve had a lovely night, and now, true to form, Dorian’s going to ruin it.

Something must be showing on his brow, because Cullen’s eyes are open again, and the brush of his knuckles has turned into an open palm. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

Dorian turns his face away. “I’m sorry, I’m...a bit worried about your surgery.”

“Ah.” The palm climbs his back, and fingers push into his hair. “That makes two of us,” Cullen whispers.

With a sigh, Dorian faces him again. He plants his nose in the crook of his throat and cuddles close. “I know it’s not my place to pry.” There’s a waver threatening, at the back of his throat. The tips of Cullen’s fingers are chilly. “It’s... Are they sure it should be so soon?” If the date the hospital has given him doesn’t get moved, it will be a little over four weeks since his last treatment when he goes under the knife.

There’s a shiver building along Cullen’s shoulders, which he shrugs through before looking at the ceiling. “Well, ideally they’d wait a bit longer, but because the chemo shrank the tumor they want to get it before it has a chance to...” he swallows. “To get worse, again.”

That’s what does it. Dorian feels the pinch as his face crumples, and the tears follow. He bites back on it but a thin keening breath gets away on him.

“It’ll be all right,” Cullen says softly.

Of course it might not be. Neither one of them can know, but it’s what you say to someone when they’re crying. Dorian wraps both arms around him and grits his teeth. “Don’t you die on me.” He presses his face into Cullen’s chest, crushes his nose against his sternum. “Don’t you dare die on me. Not now.”

Cullen repositions himself on his elbow, leaning away just enough to ease the pain in Dorian’s nose, kind soul that he is. “Why not _now_ , specifically?” he asks. There’s a hint of a smile in it, this intentionally stupid question. Dorian can tell he hopes he’s lightening the mood. “I mean, what’s so different about now? Why not last month? Or yesterday?” His voice is subdued, unserious. It’s the meandering tone he often slips into at night when he’s falling asleep.

Dorian is too worn down to play along. He snakes closer, filling in the space between them until his head is practically buried in Cullen’s armpit, whispers, “Because now, I’m in love with you.”

In the stillness that follows, the only sounds are Cullen’s heartbeat, and the particular pat-pat of teardrops hitting cotton. Carefully, Cullen eases Dorian backward a few inches—not a hard push, but an insistent one, and only enough to make space to lie down in front of him. His lips brush the corner of Dorian’s cheek, and their noses nudge together.

“Dorian, I’m...” He’s hoarse. Choked up. It’s enough to make Dorian look at him. There’s a wet glimmer in his eyes, redness around the rims. Tears are welling rapidly, spilling over his nose. “Everything you’ve done these past few months...I’m so grateful. I can’t begin to tell you what it means to me, I...” He’s begun crying in earnest. “Thank you,” he croaks. “I’m in love with you, too.”

His earnestness is bordering on ludicrous in its intensity, so much so that Dorian has to catch a soft laugh before it leaves him: an old, unbecoming habit he thought he’d unlearned. The sentiment might be soppy, but it’s very real. To dismiss it, by choice or accident, would be unworthy and cruel.

Besides, he started it.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Dorian says. “I want you to be here.” He smudges a tear off his face with shaky fingers. None of it has been easy, but they care for one another. The bad days are made bearable by that caring, and it’s mutual; a shared thread of vulnerability. Romantic prattle, no two ways about it, but still true. Dorian gives in to the laugh, secure in it now that it’s mostly directly at himself. He sniffles back some of his tears. “Aren’t we a pair, blubbering away...”

Cullen chuckles, deep in his throat, though there’s a little catch in it. An extra hiccup brought on by the weeping. “We are,” he says. He cups Dorian’s jaw in one hand and kisses him. There’s wet, and salt. The world moves in the dark cold outside, and they hold on to one another.

 

*

Hospitals are innately liminal. Temporary, even when permanent; in-between places much like airports, or train stations. Places for waiting, for undertaking journeys. They don’t make him uncomfortable the way they do some people. Good things happen in hospitals, as well as bad. People are born, saved, healed, treated for all manner of ailments, from a five stitch slice to life threatening injuries and diseases. Framed in that way, Dorian finds hospitals, and the staff who run them, remarkable.

The decor, however, consistently leaves much to be desired. “Wallpaper circa nineteen eighty-five. Phenomenal,” he mutters to himself. Cullen’s hand tightens around his.

“...Dorian?” His voice is low, scratchy.

“I’m here, love.”

Cullen’s breathing is quickening, now that he’s awake. His eyebrows have pulled together on his forehead, and his hand squeezes Dorian’s, quite hard.

“Are you having trouble?” Dorian asks.

More quick breaths, getting harsher. “It... It hurts a bit,” Cullen says through a grimace.

Dorian’s on his feet seeking a nurse as soon as he registers the H sound. “Excuse me, please, in three-oh-one he needs more drugs, he’s just told me he’s in pain. Please, he—”

“Sir, we’ll see to it right away.”  

A young woman heads for Cullen’s room at a quick clip while a middle-aged one keeps Dorian at the nurses’ station and reassures him that they’re up to the task.

“Sorry, that was a bit frantic, wasn’t it.” Dorian rubs at his temple, feeling embarrassed heat in his cheeks. “It’s only that he doesn’t normally own to it, if he’s suffering...”

She reaches across the desk and a firm grip closes on his shoulder. The message is clear. They’ve been kind to him, these tight-knit, practical women, nurses and doctors both. Kind to Cullen, too. When all this is over, Dorian intends to send them flowers and some nice coffee as a thank you.

In the room, Cullen is coasting back into calm. He can breathe easy again. Of course, he’s also drifting into a loopy semi-consciousness, visible in the fact that he smiles like a delighted baby when Dorian sits down next to him and takes his hand.

“That’s better, hm?” Dorian says.

His head sinks further into the pillow. “Mm.” There’s a woozy, unfocused look in his dark eyes, but their attention is fixed on Dorian. Suddenly, he damn near startles. “Titania,” Cullen says, as if he’s forgotten to bring her.

Dorian breaks into a laugh. “She’s fine, Cullen. Sera has her, it’s not to worry.”

“Oh... Yes, of course.” The purposeful lucidity drains from his face, and he softens into sleepiness. He hums a meaningless sound or two, then gazes up at Dorian, adoring. “You’re so handsome,” he murmurs, pawing Dorian’s forearm.

Dorian has barely slept in three days and the dark circles under his eyes are galactic at this point. His hair wants washing and he’s been wearing the same shirt for far longer than is socially acceptable, considering his apartment is only ten minutes away. The compliment, however misplaced, is balm. “I’m what you’d call a hot mess, at the moment,” he says.

No response. Cullen’s eyes have swayed shut, and his grip falters, goes lax. At least he’s free of his drainage tubes, as of last night. One hell of a birthday present for poor Cullen, all this medical intervention and subsequent fussing, but his doctor is satisfied with how the incision is healing and in a couple of days he’ll be released into Dorian’s nervous care. A proper birthday celebration will have to wait.

Cullen mumbles something unintelligible.

“What was that?” Dorian asks, leaning in.

“I hope you’ll marry me someday,” Cullen mumbles louder, eyes still closed, high as a kite.

Dorian straightens out in his seat. After a few breathless moments he huffs a laugh. It’s the drugs, obviously. He knows it’s the drugs: people talk all kinds of absurd nonsense when they’re on heavy duty pain medication. Still, there’s a peculiar catch in his heart. He’s never been one to think in the long-term, or make big plans for the future. Not anymore, and especially not recently, given Cullen’s tenuous health. To think of a time when he might call this man, whose bedside he’s sat vigil at all week, husband...

The idea definitely terrifies him. Being that person, the committed, reliable partner, a man wearing a ring as a symbol instead of simply a pretty trinket. It was never something he aspired to. Nonetheless, he reluctantly notes that the twisting in his chest isn’t only fear. There’s a softer flutter underneath; a whisper, some wistful glimmer ignited deep down.

Husband. He might, someday, like that.

Dorian lifts Cullen’s hand to plant a kiss on the knuckles. They’re cold, so he holds them to his lips for a few long moments to warm them up. He thinks of several half-baked deflections. Whimsical falsehoods, like elopement to the south of France, but even knowing Cullen won’t recall a single word of it he can’t bring himself to cheapen the sweetness of the moment. “Ask me again when you’ll remember the answer,” he finally says to Cullen, who is already fast asleep.

 

*

Neither one of them is sure why they’ve been summoned to the Hawke household on a Tuesday evening, given that the man himself was uncharacteristically cagey about the invitation, but they arrive before dusk as requested. With a bottle of wine, just in case.  

“Come in, come in!” Garrett says, his grin matched only by the glint in his eye. He’s definitely up to something, but Dorian doesn’t know him well enough to make a guess at what. He leads them down the hall to the kitchen, where a baby gate blocks the entryway.

Behind it, a huddle of very wee canine faces are mushed up against the plastic, eyeing them.

“Puppies!” Cullen says. He wastes no time following Garrett over the gate into the maelstrom.

It’s a litter of five, at that stage where they begin to more closely resemble dogs rather than plump potatoes with legs. Which is lucky, because if they were any tinier Cullen looks as though he’d scoop them all into his jacket and make a break for it. Their mother, whom Garrett plans to foster until the pups are adopted out, is kenneled under the table. She’s a handsome mixture of indeterminate breeds: definitely Shepherd in there, but beyond that, a mystery. Whatever the remainder of her origin, it was fluffy.

The puppies are tail-wagging machines. They flock to Garrett, then to Cullen, then to Dorian, repeating the process several times in under ten seconds. Cullen eases himself down to the hardwood—Dorian spots him, since he’s the more willing to acknowledge how tender Cullen’s incision still is—and in an instant all five pups tumble into his lap, stomping and biting and licking and endeavoring to climb his chest. Dorian settles in next to him, and the flood of puppies spills accordingly to him. They’re fat and soft as rabbits and he can’t help but laugh.

“Ouch,” Cullen says as one of them chomps his finger. He scoops up the offender and she wags and wiggles and tries to lick his face, and he lets her for a moment before setting her down again.

They’re very mobile but don’t quite have the full hang of walking; they tromp, and they’re wobbly, but nothing much deters them. Low center of gravity is a saving grace when you take as many spills as they seem to.

“Little monsters,” Dorian coos at them. “God, I’d forgotten how sharp puppy teeth are.”

The next twenty minutes are a blur of activity. Puppies flopping, jumping, barking, tugging at any and every loose—or firmly attached—bit of fabric they can put their mouths on. Hawke has provided them with a selection of toys, and all of them inevitably get obsessed with the same one at once, sinking their teeth into it and becoming a many-limbed and tailed entity of itty bitty growls. All in a moment, as is the way with babies, they’re tuckered. Two of them lie down right where they were playing and fall asleep. The other two make it back to one of their blankets. The fifth, the same little female with the tan eyebrows that chomped Cullen, gives a few half-hearted puppy cries, crawls into Cullen’s lap, and promptly passes out. He strokes a single finger over her head and she sleeps soundly on his legs.

“Uh oh,” Dorian says. “I know that look.”

Cullen has to swallow a visible lump in his throat before he can speak. “What look?”

Dorian  sets a hand on Cullen’s shoulder. “You’ve become a father,” he says with faux solemnity.

Garrett breaks into laughter where he’s standing; arms crossed, the backs of his hips leaned against the countertop. “They’ll be ready to go in a few weeks,” he says. “We’d be happy for you to take her.”

The puppy makes a gurgly little bark in her sleep and Cullen stares down at her. A long pause descends, and with it a blanket of thin tension. “We can’t...” he says, too quietly. “Not right now.” He glances at Dorian, but won’t hold his gaze, and he lowers his head in an effort to hide the swell of tears reddening his eyes. He doesn’t have to explain.  

His prognosis is positive but he’s not in the clear, and the reality they’re both well aware of is that this wee puppy, so new and promising, might outlive him. A stray tear breaks free over Cullen’s lower eyelid and leaves a dark spot on the denim of his jeans.

Dorian hugs him, offers his shoulder for Cullen to press his face into. They stay until the pup stretches and wobbles out of Cullen’s lap, all of the siblings similarly stirring again, and Garrett rounds them up to feed them.

“We could work something out, Cullen,” Garrett says as he sees them off. His eyes, so much darker than Cullen’s, are earnest as he looks to Dorian for confirmation.

Dorian nods. “We could.”

“If something were to happen, god forbid, Anders and I could always take her back,” Hawke says as he pulls Cullen into one of his bear hugs—a gentle one. He adds, “Think about it,” then lets him go. He hugs Dorian as well, pats him on the back.

In the car, Dorian puts his keys in the ignition but doesn’t start it. They sit in silence in the chill, end of winter night.

“Are we waiting for something in particular?” Cullen eventually asks.  

Dorian sighs. “I know it’s a bad time,” he starts. He smooths over his mustache. “I know that, and I’m not trying to convince you of anything.”

“Dorian...”

He holds up a hand. “Let me finish. I only wanted to say that I’ve never seen you look so tenderly at anything before and it’s endearing as all hell. Maybe now isn’t the right time, but...” He reaches to squeeze Cullen’s thigh and he turns to face him. “Would you like to have a puppy with me, someday?”

Cullen’s lips part, and he begins to chuckle. Eventually, he manages a nod, covers Dorian’s hand with his own. “Someday.” He shakes his head, lets out a breath. “And only if Titania gives us her blessing.”

 

*

Sun spills through the window, scattering itself on a glass vase full of tulips. From that faceted point, it transforms into reflected shards of yellow warmth dotting the apartment walls. A walk through the park with Titania that morning revealed other evidence of spring: lilacs on the cusp of bursting open, fresh greenery in gardens, tufts of daffodils, and a distinct lack of ice on the wind. Cullen and the dog meandered while Dorian kept one eye on Cullen’s brow to detect if he was fading. One of his many tells: a worry line that deepens to a divot when he begins to run out of energy. Often Dorian catches it happening before Cullen does.

Fortunately, he seemed quite well today. Enough so that he got mischievous and nudged the branch of a blossoming ornamental cherry, which showered Dorian in a cloud of pink petals.

Home now, recuperating from the exertion, the full weight of Cullen’s skull rests on Dorian’s thighs. He dozes, punctuated every so often by a soft snore, with an open book abandoned on his chest. Dorian reads too, combs fingers over the fuzz on Cullen’s head as he does. A few spots started to fill in before he had his surgery, but postoperative chemo thinned them out again. It’ll be three weeks on the coming Tuesday since he finished his last cycle, which means regrowth, and relief, are real possibilities. Potentially.

Cullen’s doctors are cautiously optimistic, so far. The surgery was a success, everything nasty fully resected. Follow-up chemo was a bit like bombing a fresh blast crater; extra measures to ensure nothing crept out of the dust. They’ll keep a close eye on him for the foreseeable future and he has appointments scheduled monthly into the next year, since it’s something that must be monitored, never set aside or ignored. Vigilance is the best defense, at this stage, though even that may not save him.

Dorian’s done enough research to know that statistics, collections of analyzed numbers with no names attached, aren’t always accurate to the individual. Such data can predict in the general sense but no study is thorough enough to compensate for the raw potential of any singular, random human to buck a scientific trend. Because of that, he’s decided it’s best not to frighten himself with them. Not yet, perhaps not for a long time. For now, he prefers the realms of hope and luck. Very occasionally prayer, though the gods are not always terribly forthcoming. His own fault, maybe, for being reticent with them himself.

Cullen opens his eyes and his mouth curls at the corner, putting a dimple in the pinpricks of stubble on his cheek. “How long have I been asleep?” he asks, shifting his head on Dorian’s lap.

“Not long.” Dorian draws a fingertip along Cullen’s jaw. “Did you see that your beard is coming back faster?”

He ducks his face down and laughs as the touch tickles him. “I’d noticed. I’ll have to start shaving regularly again. I can’t say I’ve missed that.”

“You know, it’s funny, I don’t recall ever seeing you clean-shaven...”

There’s a rumbly chuckle that Dorian feels more than hears. “All right, go easy.”

“Why not let it grow out?” Dorian says, stroking over his own trimmed beard.

Cullen scoffs. “Mine looks nothing like that when I try.” Both his hands reach up to pat Dorian’s face, ruffling the beard the same way he ruffles the dog. “Yours is so full and shiny...”

It’s a pleasing sensation, and Dorian leans into it. “True, mine is exceptional. However, because I’m in a mood, I’ll confess to you that at the moment it’s mostly an effort to hide this bit of pudge under my chin.” That particular little affliction crept up on him sometime after Christmas. Being soft in the middle he doesn’t much mind, but once it threatens his jawline it’s time to admit he’s given himself too much slack. “When I lose ten pounds the beard is going.” Hopefully in time for summer, before it gets hot.

A hard frown from Cullen. He frowns well, does Cullen. “You mean to tell me I’m to lose your beard and your belly in one fell swoop?”

“I’m afraid you might.”

More frowning. “Maybe I will grow a beard, then.”

“A beard of retaliation?”

“Yes. Tactical facial hair,” Cullen muses.

Dorian laughs, leans further into the sofa cushions. “Does that mean it has no effectiveness if I approve? Which I do, by the way.”

Silence. Cullen thinks, his oddly dark brows coming together under his worry lines. “Perhaps it does.”

It’s silly, but it’s moments like these that make fondness rush to flood Dorian’s chest. His heart beats slow, but there’s a warmth that radiates up from his sternum to tighten his cheeks. He rubs Cullen’s stomach, below the resting book. “Well, beard or no, it’s up to you, but I for one am delighted that you’ll be back to your fuzzy self.”

Cullen sits up, clumsily grabs for the book he’s forgotten was on top of him to stop it clattering to the floor, and sets it aside. He stretches and then sidles back along the couch so he can kiss Dorian before lowering to nuzzle his collarbone. “Take me back to bed,” he says quietly. His breath is hot across Dorian’s skin.

Dorian hums a knowing little laugh. “To continue your nap, or did you have something else in mind?”

“I’m...open to other ideas,” Cullen says, nose bumping against Dorian’s adam’s apple.

“Feeling suggestible, hm? In that case, I may have a proposition or two...”

They undress one another, but it’s a tender, unhurried act. Naked under the covers they twine together, rutting slow and languid with no frantic build to release pressure. It’s pleasure and intimacy purely for the sake of it, for the steady trickle of endorphins and the warmth and softness of skin on skin. Cullen’s cheeks deepen to dark rose and he nuzzles for kisses, eventually making a little noise of need before he reaches between them to wrap a rough hand around both their shafts. It feels good, the squeeze of his hand around the slide and press of their cocks, slick with pre-come, but Cullen is faltering. He’s still not quite himself, doesn’t have his full strength.  

“Let me,” Dorian says to him, covering his hand and urging it out of the way. He strokes further, behind Cullen’s balls and over them, until he makes another small noise into Dorian’s ear. Then, he grips both their lengths.

Cullen is close. His breaths are shallow, fingers tense in the pillowcase next to Dorian’s head. A few more measured strokes, and he’s stringing come across Dorian’s stomach. He moans, low and airy, as Dorian milks the last of it out of him, working his foreskin gently up and down over the head. With Cullen finished, he shifts his hand to his own cock.

He knows himself well and he’s been teetering on the edge since before Cullen came, and it doesn’t take much coaxing to inspire the familiar clench and surge of release.

After only a cursory clean up, Cullen plants himself on top of Dorian and proceeds to fall deeply asleep. A few minutes later Titania, closed out to maintain their privacy, whines on the other side of the bedroom door, and Dorian feels torn between loyalty to his overgrown puppy and to...well, his _other_ overgrown puppy, he thinks as Cullen snuggles closer in his sleep.

“The dog, love,” he whispers, ever so carefully extricating himself from the bed. He pulls on a pair of clean underwear and opens the door, and Titania hops up into her spot with a huff. She’s always hated being excluded from an afternoon nap.

Dorian gives her a quick ruffle about the ears and then reclaims his position by Cullen’s side. He isn’t especially sleepy, but the longer he lies there the more he’s lulled.

Spring. Last spring, he only knew Cullen in passing, as the handsome, if scruffy and dusty, blond fellow who liked to meditate. Now, here they are. It’s been a difficult winter, but it’s over, and Dorian, contrary to what he’d have everyone think, is an optimist. With a certainty he feels right down to the bones, Dorian believes summer, their summer, is still to come.

 

*

“Oh—Oh my god. Are you trying to cut your own throat?”

Cullen turns to him and blinks, twice. “...No?” He’s standing in front of the bathroom mirror with only a towel slung about his hips, wet curls unruly and pale skin shimmering damp from the shower. The lower half of his face is engulfed in fluffy shaving cream. He’s gripping a cheap disposable razor and staring at Dorian like he’s burst in on him committing a terrible crime.

Which, in a roundabout way, he is. Against himself. “Could’ve fooled me,” Dorian says. At least he’s shaving _after_ his shower. At least he has that much sense. “Here—” he holds out a hand, then thinks better of it. “On second thought, finish what you’re doing.” He waves for him to continue, then crosses his arms. Best to observe the whole ritual, to grasp just how ingrained the bad habit is.

“With you standing there watching?”

“Yes.”

A colossal sigh follows, but Cullen squares with the mirror and carries on. He scrapes a harsh line under his jaw and Dorian winces, audibly.

Cullen stops and leans both hands on the rim of the sink. “Are you going to do that the whole time?”

“Probably.”

Another sigh, and he carries on, scraping and scratching for an excruciating minute. He’s hurried by Dorian’s presence, which is helping nothing, and then he splashes water on his face and towels off. “There,” he says. He gives the razor a rinse and tucks it back in his leather toiletry bag.

“That’s it?” Dorian asks.

Cullen nods. “That’s it.”

Dorian sucks more air through his teeth.

“What?” Cullen says, one hand outstretched in exasperation.

The drawer on the right side of the sink makes its trademark squeak as Dorian opens it. He plucks out a small black bottle and dabs some of the product onto his fingertips before using a knuckle to nudge Cullen’s chin up to have a look at the mess he’s made. “Hold still.”

Cullen rears back an inch or two. “Is this going to sting?”

“For pity’s sake, don’t be such a baby!” Dorian gently takes hold of his chin and keeps him in place. “And yes it’s going to sting because you just carved half your face off. Is that how you got that scar?”  

“Very funny,” Cullen grumbles, but there’s a smile pulling at his cheek. Dorian pats the moisturizer onto either side of his face and Cullen’s nose scrunches in a one-sided grimace. “Definitely stings.”

“You’ve nobody to blame but yourself,” Dorian says to him. “Next time you need a shave you tell me, and I’ll show you a kinder method. Conversely, for the sake of your own safety, you might consider that beard we’ve discussed on a number of occasions.”

He’s given a disgruntled, begrudgingly appreciative look. “Duly noted.” Cullen begins to slip by to leave the room, and Dorian catches the edge of his towel and gives it a slight, stiff tug, sending it to the floor in a heap as Cullen barks a little noise of surprise. He turns, fully grinning, and Dorian realizes his mistake.

“Oh no, no, no!” He laughs as he’s grappled off his feet and up onto the bathroom counter, legs squeezing around either side of Cullen’s hips. “You brute. These are my good work trousers. Now I’ll have to change...” He can feel every water droplet on the countertop seeping through the seat. Cullen’s lips and teeth graze along his throat, nipping a hum out of him and making his thighs clench.

“Exactly,” Cullen hushes, hands holding Dorian at the hip. He smells sudsy and fresh, and he’s hardening up, pink and insistent between them.

Dorian indulges in a dramatic sigh and wraps both arms about Cullen’s freckled shoulders. “I suppose you’d better hurry and get me out of these, then,” he says. Still grinning, Cullen hoists him with a grunt and refuses to put him down until he tosses him unceremoniously into the unmade bed and plunges in after, practically on top of him.

“You shouldn’t be lifting me like that,” Dorian scolds. His strength is coming back to him, but it’s slow, and it wanes rapidly, burns out in a wink.

“I’m fine,” he breathes between kisses along Dorian’s neck.

“Fine? You’re downright rambunctious.”

Cullen chuckles and kisses him on the mouth, kneels to begin the work of yanking off his trousers.

He’ll probably be late to work--They both will. But it’s a Friday and it’s summer, and nobody will mind much, in the grand scheme. Nothing an apology or two won’t fix. There’s time. For now, there’s time.

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting and... everything, guys. Your support throughout this story has meant the world to me. I'll likely continue to draw these two, so feel free to swing by [tumblr](http://stonelions.tumblr.com/) and visit!


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